puffyboa.xyz Speedreed

Speedreed

The

War

of

the

Worlds

by

H.

G.

Wells

‘But

who

shall

dwell

in

these

worlds

if

they

be

inhabited?

.

.

.

Are

we

or

they

Lords

of

the

World?

.

.

.

And

how

are

all

things

made

for

man?’

KEPLER

(quoted

in

The

Anatomy

of

Melancholy)

BOOK

ONE

THE

COMING

OF

THE

MARTIANS

I.

THE

EVE

OF

THE

WAR.

No

one

would

have

believed

in

the

last

years

of

the

nineteenth

century

that

this

world

was

being

watched

keenly

and

closely

by

intelligences

greater

than

man’s

and

yet

as

mortal

as

his

own;

that

as

men

busied

themselves

about

their

various

concerns

they

were

scrutinised

and

studied,

perhaps

almost

as

narrowly

as

a

man

with

a

microscope

might

scrutinise

the

transient

creatures

that

swarm

and

multiply

in

a

drop

of

water.

With

infinite

complacency

men

went

to

and

fro

over

this

globe

about

their

little

affairs,

serene

in

their

assurance

of

their

empire

over

matter.

It

is

possible

that

the

infusoria

under

the

microscope

do

the

same.

No

one

gave

a

thought

to

the

older

worlds

of

space

as

sources

of

human

danger,

or

thought

of

them

only

to

dismiss

the

idea

of

life

upon

them

as

impossible

or

improbable.

It

is

curious

to

recall

some

of

the

mental

habits

of

those

departed

days.

At

most

terrestrial

men

fancied

there

might

be

other

men

upon

Mars,

perhaps

inferior

to

themselves

and

ready

to

welcome

a

missionary

enterprise.

Yet

across

the

gulf

of

space,

minds

that

are

to

our

minds

as

ours

are

to

those

of

the

beasts

that

perish,

intellects

vast

and

cool

and

unsympathetic,

regarded

this

earth

with

envious

eyes,

and

slowly

and

surely

drew

their

plans

against

us.

And

early

in

the

twentieth

century

came

the

great

disillusionment.

The

planet

Mars,

I

scarcely

need

remind

the

reader,

revolves

about

the

sun

at

a

mean

distance

of

140,000,000

miles,

and

the

light

and

heat

it

receives

from

the

sun

is

barely

half

of

that

received

by

this

world.

It

must

be,

if

the

nebular

hypothesis

has

any

truth,

older

than

our

world;

and

long

before

this

earth

ceased

to

be

molten,

life

upon

its

surface

must

have

begun

its

course.

The

fact

that

it

is

scarcely

one

seventh

of

the

volume

of

the

earth

must

have

accelerated

its

cooling

to

the

temperature

at

which

life

could

begin.

It

has

air

and

water

and

all

that

is

necessary

for

the

support

of

animated

existence.

Yet

so

vain

is

man,

and

so

blinded

by

his

vanity,

that

no

writer,

up

to

the

very

end

of

the

nineteenth

century,

expressed

any

idea

that

intelligent

life

might

have

developed

there

far,

or

indeed

at

all,

beyond

its

earthly

level.

Nor

was

it

generally

understood

that

since

Mars

is

older

than

our

earth,

with

scarcely

a

quarter

of

the

superficial

area

and

remoter

from

the

sun,

it

necessarily

follows

that

it

is

not

only

more

distant

from

time’s

beginning

but

nearer

its

end.

The

secular

cooling

that

must

someday

overtake

our

planet

has

already

gone

far

indeed

with

our

neighbour.

Its

physical

condition

is

still

largely

a

mystery,

but

we

know

now

that

even

in

its

equatorial

region

the

midday

temperature

barely

approaches

that

of

our

coldest

winter.

Its

air

is

much

more

attenuated

than

ours,

its

oceans

have

shrunk

until

they

cover

but

a

third

of

its

surface,

and

as

its

slow

seasons

change

huge

snowcaps

gather

and

melt

about

either

pole

and

periodically

inundate

its

temperate

zones.

That

last

stage

of

exhaustion,

which

to

us

is

still

incredibly

remote,

has

become

a

present-day

problem

for

the

inhabitants

of

Mars.

The

immediate

pressure

of

necessity

has

brightened

their

intellects,

enlarged

their

powers,

and

hardened

their

hearts.

And

looking

across

space

with

instruments,

and

intelligences

such

as

we

have

scarcely

dreamed

of,

they

see,

at

its

nearest

distance

only

35,000,000

of

miles

sunward

of

them,

a

morning

star

of

hope,

our

own

warmer

planet,

green

with

vegetation

and

grey

with

water,

with

a

cloudy

atmosphere

eloquent

of

fertility,

with

glimpses

through

its

drifting

cloud

wisps

of

broad

stretches

of

populous

country

and

narrow,

navy-crowded

seas.

And

we

men,

the

creatures

who

inhabit

this

earth,

must

be

to

them

at

least

as

alien

and

lowly

as

are

the

monkeys

and

lemurs

to

us.

The

intellectual

side

of

man

already

admits

that

life

is

an

incessant

struggle

for

existence,

and

it

would

seem

that

this

too

is

the

belief

of

the

minds

upon

Mars.

Their

world

is

far

gone

in

its

cooling

and

this

world

is

still

crowded

with

life,

but

crowded

only

with

what

they

regard

as

inferior

animals.

To

carry

warfare

sunward

is,

indeed,

their

only

escape

from

the

destruction

that,

generation

after

generation,

creeps

upon

them.

And

before

we

judge

of

them

too

harshly

we

must

remember

what

ruthless

and

utter

destruction

our

own

species

has

wrought,

not

only

upon

animals,

such

as

the

vanished

bison

and

the

dodo,

but

upon

its

inferior

races.

The

Tasmanians,

in

spite

of

their

human

likeness,

were

entirely

swept

out

of

existence

in

a

war

of

extermination

waged

by

European

immigrants,

in

the

space

of

fifty

years.

Are

we

such

apostles

of

mercy

as

to

complain

if

the

Martians

warred

in

the

same

spirit?

The

Martians

seem

to

have

calculated

their

descent

with

amazing

subtlety—their

mathematical

learning

is

evidently

far

in

excess

of

ours—and

to

have

carried

out

their

preparations

with

a

well-nigh

perfect

unanimity.

Had

our

instruments

permitted

it,

we

might

have

seen

the

gathering

trouble

far

back

in

the

nineteenth

century.

Men

like

Schiaparelli

watched

the

red

planet—it

is

odd,

by-the-bye,

that

for

countless

centuries

Mars

has

been

the

star

of

war—but

failed

to

interpret

the

fluctuating

appearances

of

the

markings

they

mapped

so

well.

All

that

time

the

Martians

must

have

been

getting

ready.

During

the

opposition

of

1894

a

great

light

was

seen

on

the

illuminated

part

of

the

disk,

first

at

the

Lick

Observatory,

then

by

Perrotin

of

Nice,

and

then

by

other

observers.

English

readers

heard

of

it

first

in

the

issue

of

Nature

dated

August

2.

I

am

inclined

to

think

that

this

blaze

may

have

been

the

casting

of

the

huge

gun,

in

the

vast

pit

sunk

into

their

planet,

from

which

their

shots

were

fired

at

us.

Peculiar

markings,

as

yet

unexplained,

were

seen

near

the

site

of

that

outbreak

during

the

next

two

oppositions.

The

storm

burst

upon

us

six

years

ago

now.

As

Mars

approached

opposition,

Lavelle

of

Java

set

the

wires

of

the

astronomical

exchange

palpitating

with

the

amazing

intelligence

of

a

huge

outbreak

of

incandescent

gas

upon

the

planet.

It

had

occurred

towards

midnight

of

the

twelfth;

and

the

spectroscope,

to

which

he

had

at

once

resorted,

indicated

a

mass

of

flaming

gas,

chiefly

hydrogen,

moving

with

an

enormous

velocity

towards

this

earth.

This

jet

of

fire

had

become

invisible

about

a

quarter

past

twelve.

He

compared

it

to

a

colossal

puff

of

flame

suddenly

and

violently

squirted

out

of

the

planet,

“as

flaming

gases

rushed

out

of

a

gun.”

A

singularly

appropriate

phrase

it

proved.

Yet

the

next

day

there

was

nothing

of

this

in

the

papers

except

a

little

note

in

the

Daily

Telegraph,

and

the

world

went

in

ignorance

of

one

of

the

gravest

dangers

that

ever

threatened

the

human

race.

I

might

not

have

heard

of

the

eruption

at

all

had

I

not

met

Ogilvy,

the

well-known

astronomer,

at

Ottershaw.

He

was

immensely

excited

at

the

news,

and

in

the

excess

of

his

feelings

invited

me

up

to

take

a

turn

with

him

that

night

in

a

scrutiny

of

the

red

planet.

In

spite

of

all

that

has

happened

since,

I

still

remember

that

vigil

very

distinctly:

the

black

and

silent

observatory,

the

shadowed

lantern

throwing

a

feeble

glow

upon

the

floor

in

the

corner,

the

steady

ticking

of

the

clockwork

of

the

telescope,

the

little

slit

in

the

roof—an

oblong

profundity

with

the

stardust

streaked

across

it.

Ogilvy

moved

about,

invisible

but

audible.

Looking

through

the

telescope,

one

saw

a

circle

of

deep

blue

and

the

little

round

planet

swimming

in

the

field.

It

seemed

such

a

little

thing,

so

bright

and

small

and

still,

faintly

marked

with

transverse

stripes,

and

slightly

flattened

from

the

perfect

round.

But

so

little

it

was,

so

silvery

warm—a

pin’s

head

of

light!

It

was

as

if

it

quivered,

but

really

this

was

the

telescope

vibrating

with

the

activity

of

the

clockwork

that

kept

the

planet

in

view.

As

I

watched,

the

planet

seemed

to

grow

larger

and

smaller

and

to

advance

and

recede,

but

that

was

simply

that

my

eye

was

tired.

Forty

millions

of

miles

it

was

from

us—more

than

forty

millions

of

miles

of

void.

Few

people

realise

the

immensity

of

vacancy

in

which

the

dust

of

the

material

universe

swims.

Near

it

in

the

field,

I

remember,

were

three

faint

points

of

light,

three

telescopic

stars

infinitely

remote,

and

all

around

it

was

the

unfathomable

darkness

of

empty

space.

You

know

how

that

blackness

looks

on

a

frosty

starlight

night.

In

a

telescope

it

seems

far

profounder.

And

invisible

to

me

because

it

was

so

remote

and

small,

flying

swiftly

and

steadily

towards

me

across

that

incredible

distance,

drawing

nearer

every

minute

by

so

many

thousands

of

miles,

came

the

Thing

they

were

sending

us,

the

Thing

that

was

to

bring

so

much

struggle

and

calamity

and

death

to

the

earth.

I

never

dreamed

of

it

then

as

I

watched;

no

one

on

earth

dreamed

of

that

unerring

missile.

That

night,

too,

there

was

another

jetting

out

of

gas

from

the

distant

planet.

I

saw

it.

A

reddish

flash

at

the

edge,

the

slightest

projection

of

the

outline

just

as

the

chronometer

struck

midnight;

and

at

that

I

told

Ogilvy

and

he

took

my

place.

The

night

was

warm

and

I

was

thirsty,

and

I

went

stretching

my

legs

clumsily

and

feeling

my

way

in

the

darkness,

to

the

little

table

where

the

siphon

stood,

while

Ogilvy

exclaimed

at

the

streamer

of

gas

that

came

out

towards

us.

That

night

another

invisible

missile

started

on

its

way

to

the

earth

from

Mars,

just

a

second

or

so

under

twenty-four

hours

after

the

first

one.

I

remember

how

I

sat

on

the

table

there

in

the

blackness,

with

patches

of

green

and

crimson

swimming

before

my

eyes.

I

wished

I

had

a

light

to

smoke

by,

little

suspecting

the

meaning

of

the

minute

gleam

I

had

seen

and

all

that

it

would

presently

bring

me.

Ogilvy

watched

till

one,

and

then

gave

it

up;

and

we

lit

the

lantern

and

walked

over

to

his

house.

Down

below

in

the

darkness

were

Ottershaw

and

Chertsey

and

all

their

hundreds

of

people,

sleeping

in

peace.

He

was

full

of

speculation

that

night

about

the

condition

of

Mars,

and

scoffed

at

the

vulgar

idea

of

its

having

inhabitants

who

were

signalling

us.

His

idea

was

that

meteorites

might

be

falling

in

a

heavy

shower

upon

the

planet,

or

that

a

huge

volcanic

explosion

was

in

progress.

He

pointed

out

to

me

how

unlikely

it

was

that

organic

evolution

had

taken

the

same

direction

in

the

two

adjacent

planets.

“The

chances

against

anything

manlike

on

Mars

are

a

million

to

one,”

he

said.

Hundreds

of

observers

saw

the

flame

that

night

and

the

night

after

about

midnight,

and

again

the

night

after;

and

so

for

ten

nights,

a

flame

each

night.

Why

the

shots

ceased

after

the

tenth

no

one

on

earth

has

attempted

to

explain.

It

may

be

the

gases

of

the

firing

caused

the

Martians

inconvenience.

Dense

clouds

of

smoke

or

dust,

visible

through

a

powerful

telescope

on

earth

as

little

grey,

fluctuating

patches,

spread

through

the

clearness

of

the

planet’s

atmosphere

and

obscured

its

more

familiar

features.

Even

the

daily

papers

woke

up

to

the

disturbances

at

last,

and

popular

notes

appeared

here,

there,

and

everywhere

concerning

the

volcanoes

upon

Mars.

The

seriocomic

periodical

Punch,

I

remember,

made

a

happy

use

of

it

in

the

political

cartoon.

And,

all

unsuspected,

those

missiles

the

Martians

had

fired

at

us

drew

earthward,

rushing

now

at

a

pace

of

many

miles

a

second

through

the

empty

gulf

of

space,

hour

by

hour

and

day

by

day,

nearer

and

nearer.

It

seems

to

me

now

almost

incredibly

wonderful

that,

with

that

swift

fate

hanging

over

us,

men

could

go

about

their

petty

concerns

as

they

did.

I

remember

how

jubilant

Markham

was

at

securing

a

new

photograph

of

the

planet

for

the

illustrated

paper

he

edited

in

those

days.

People

in

these

latter

times

scarcely

realise

the

abundance

and

enterprise

of

our

nineteenth-century

papers.

For

my

own

part,

I

was

much

occupied

in

learning

to

ride

the

bicycle,

and

busy

upon

a

series

of

papers

discussing

the

probable

developments

of

moral

ideas

as

civilisation

progressed.

One

night

(the

first

missile

then

could

scarcely

have

been

10,000,000

miles

away)

I

went

for

a

walk

with

my

wife.

It

was

starlight

and

I

explained

the

Signs

of

the

Zodiac

to

her,

and

pointed

out

Mars,

a

bright

dot

of

light

creeping

zenithward,

towards

which

so

many

telescopes

were

pointed.

It

was

a

warm

night.

Coming

home,

a

party

of

excursionists

from

Chertsey

or

Isleworth

passed

us

singing

and

playing

music.

There

were

lights

in

the

upper

windows

of

the

houses

as

the

people

went

to

bed.

From

the

railway

station

in

the

distance

came

the

sound

of

shunting

trains,

ringing

and

rumbling,

softened

almost

into

melody

by

the

distance.

My

wife

pointed

out

to

me

the

brightness

of

the

red,

green,

and

yellow

signal

lights

hanging

in

a

framework

against

the

sky.

It

seemed

so

safe

and

tranquil.

II.

THE

FALLING

STAR.

Then

came

the

night

of

the

first

falling

star.

It

was

seen

early

in

the

morning,

rushing

over

Winchester

eastward,

a

line

of

flame

high

in

the

atmosphere.

Hundreds

must

have

seen

it,

and

taken

it

for

an

ordinary

falling

star.

Albin

described

it

as

leaving

a

greenish

streak

behind

it

that

glowed

for

some

seconds.

Denning,

our

greatest

authority

on

meteorites,

stated

that

the

height

of

its

first

appearance

was

about

ninety

or

one

hundred

miles.

It

seemed

to

him

that

it

fell

to

earth

about

one

hundred

miles

east

of

him.

I

was

at

home

at

that

hour

and

writing

in

my

study;

and

although

my

French

windows

face

towards

Ottershaw

and

the

blind

was

up

(for

I

loved

in

those

days

to

look

up

at

the

night

sky),

I

saw

nothing

of

it.

Yet

this

strangest

of

all

things

that

ever

came

to

earth

from

outer

space

must

have

fallen

while

I

was

sitting

there,

visible

to

me

had

I

only

looked

up

as

it

passed.

Some

of

those

who

saw

its

flight

say

it

travelled

with

a

hissing

sound.

I

myself

heard

nothing

of

that.

Many

people

in

Berkshire,

Surrey,

and

Middlesex

must

have

seen

the

fall

of

it,

and,

at

most,

have

thought

that

another

meteorite

had

descended.

No

one

seems

to

have

troubled

to

look

for

the

fallen

mass

that

night.

But

very

early

in

the

morning

poor

Ogilvy,

who

had

seen

the

shooting

star

and

who

was

persuaded

that

a

meteorite

lay

somewhere

on

the

common

between

Horsell,

Ottershaw,

and

Woking,

rose

early

with

the

idea

of

finding

it.

Find

it

he

did,

soon

after

dawn,

and

not

far

from

the

sand-pits.

An

enormous

hole

had

been

made

by

the

impact

of

the

projectile,

and

the

sand

and

gravel

had

been

flung

violently

in

every

direction

over

the

heath,

forming

heaps

visible

a

mile

and

a

half

away.

The

heather

was

on

fire

eastward,

and

a

thin

blue

smoke

rose

against

the

dawn.

The

Thing

itself

lay

almost

entirely

buried

in

sand,

amidst

the

scattered

splinters

of

a

fir

tree

it

had

shivered

to

fragments

in

its

descent.

The

uncovered

part

had

the

appearance

of

a

huge

cylinder,

caked

over

and

its

outline

softened

by

a

thick

scaly

dun-coloured

incrustation.

It

had

a

diameter

of

about

thirty

yards.

He

approached

the

mass,

surprised

at

the

size

and

more

so

at

the

shape,

since

most

meteorites

are

rounded

more

or

less

completely.

It

was,

however,

still

so

hot

from

its

flight

through

the

air

as

to

forbid

his

near

approach.

A

stirring

noise

within

its

cylinder

he

ascribed

to

the

unequal

cooling

of

its

surface;

for

at

that

time

it

had

not

occurred

to

him

that

it

might

be

hollow.

He

remained

standing

at

the

edge

of

the

pit

that

the

Thing

had

made

for

itself,

staring

at

its

strange

appearance,

astonished

chiefly

at

its

unusual

shape

and

colour,

and

dimly

perceiving

even

then

some

evidence

of

design

in

its

arrival.

The

early

morning

was

wonderfully

still,

and

the

sun,

just

clearing

the

pine

trees

towards

Weybridge,

was

already

warm.

He

did

not

remember

hearing

any

birds

that

morning,

there

was

certainly

no

breeze

stirring,

and

the

only

sounds

were

the

faint

movements

from

within

the

cindery

cylinder.

He

was

all

alone

on

the

common.

Then

suddenly

he

noticed

with

a

start

that

some

of

the

grey

clinker,

the

ashy

incrustation

that

covered

the

meteorite,

was

falling

off

the

circular

edge

of

the

end.

It

was

dropping

off

in

flakes

and

raining

down

upon

the

sand.

A

large

piece

suddenly

came

off

and

fell

with

a

sharp

noise

that

brought

his

heart

into

his

mouth.

For

a

minute

he

scarcely

realised

what

this

meant,

and,

although

the

heat

was

excessive,

he

clambered

down

into

the

pit

close

to

the

bulk

to

see

the

Thing

more

clearly.

He

fancied

even

then

that

the

cooling

of

the

body

might

account

for

this,

but

what

disturbed

that

idea

was

the

fact

that

the

ash

was

falling

only

from

the

end

of

the

cylinder.

And

then

he

perceived

that,

very

slowly,

the

circular

top

of

the

cylinder

was

rotating

on

its

body.

It

was

such

a

gradual

movement

that

he

discovered

it

only

through

noticing

that

a

black

mark

that

had

been

near

him

five

minutes

ago

was

now

at

the

other

side

of

the

circumference.

Even

then

he

scarcely

understood

what

this

indicated,

until

he

heard

a

muffled

grating

sound

and

saw

the

black

mark

jerk

forward

an

inch

or

so.

Then

the

thing

came

upon

him

in

a

flash.

The

cylinder

was

artificial—hollow—with

an

end

that

screwed

out!

Something

within

the

cylinder

was

unscrewing

the

top!

“Good

heavens!”

said

Ogilvy.

“There’s

a

man

in

it—men

in

it!

Half

roasted

to

death!

Trying

to

escape!”

At

once,

with

a

quick

mental

leap,

he

linked

the

Thing

with

the

flash

upon

Mars.

The

thought

of

the

confined

creature

was

so

dreadful

to

him

that

he

forgot

the

heat

and

went

forward

to

the

cylinder

to

help

turn.

But

luckily

the

dull

radiation

arrested

him

before

he

could

burn

his

hands

on

the

still-glowing

metal.

At

that

he

stood

irresolute

for

a

moment,

then

turned,

scrambled

out

of

the

pit,

and

set

off

running

wildly

into

Woking.

The

time

then

must

have

been

somewhere

about

six

o’clock.

He

met

a

waggoner

and

tried

to

make

him

understand,

but

the

tale

he

told

and

his

appearance

were

so

wild—his

hat

had

fallen

off

in

the

pit—that

the

man

simply

drove

on.

He

was

equally

unsuccessful

with

the

potman

who

was

just

unlocking

the

doors

of

the

public-house

by

Horsell

Bridge.

The

fellow

thought

he

was

a

lunatic

at

large

and

made

an

unsuccessful

attempt

to

shut

him

into

the

taproom.

That

sobered

him

a

little;

and

when

he

saw

Henderson,

the

London

journalist,

in

his

garden,

he

called

over

the

palings

and

made

himself

understood.

“Henderson,”

he

called,

“you

saw

that

shooting

star

last

night?”

“Well?”

said

Henderson.

“It’s

out

on

Horsell

Common

now.”

“Good

Lord!”

said

Henderson.

“Fallen

meteorite!

That’s

good.”

“But

it’s

something

more

than

a

meteorite.

It’s

a

cylinder—an

artificial

cylinder,

man!

And

there’s

something

inside.”

Henderson

stood

up

with

his

spade

in

his

hand.

“What’s

that?”

he

said.

He

was

deaf

in

one

ear.

Ogilvy

told

him

all

that

he

had

seen.

Henderson

was

a

minute

or

so

taking

it

in.

Then

he

dropped

his

spade,

snatched

up

his

jacket,

and

came

out

into

the

road.

The

two

men

hurried

back

at

once

to

the

common,

and

found

the

cylinder

still

lying

in

the

same

position.

But

now

the

sounds

inside

had

ceased,

and

a

thin

circle

of

bright

metal

showed

between

the

top

and

the

body

of

the

cylinder.

Air

was

either

entering

or

escaping

at

the

rim

with

a

thin,

sizzling

sound.

They

listened,

rapped

on

the

scaly

burnt

metal

with

a

stick,

and,

meeting

with

no

response,

they

both

concluded

the

man

or

men

inside

must

be

insensible

or

dead.

Of

course

the

two

were

quite

unable

to

do

anything.

They

shouted

consolation

and

promises,

and

went

off

back

to

the

town

again

to

get

help.

One

can

imagine

them,

covered

with

sand,

excited

and

disordered,

running

up

the

little

street

in

the

bright

sunlight

just

as

the

shop

folks

were

taking

down

their

shutters

and

people

were

opening

their

bedroom

windows.

Henderson

went

into

the

railway

station

at

once,

in

order

to

telegraph

the

news

to

London.

The

newspaper

articles

had

prepared

men’s

minds

for

the

reception

of

the

idea.

By

eight

o’clock

a

number

of

boys

and

unemployed

men

had

already

started

for

the

common

to

see

the

“dead

men

from

Mars.”

That

was

the

form

the

story

took.

I

heard

of

it

first

from

my

newspaper

boy

about

a

quarter

to

nine

when

I

went

out

to

get

my

Daily

Chronicle.

I

was

naturally

startled,

and

lost

no

time

in

going

out

and

across

the

Ottershaw

bridge

to

the

sand-pits.

III.

ON

HORSELL

COMMON.

I

found

a

little

crowd

of

perhaps

twenty

people

surrounding

the

huge

hole

in

which

the

cylinder

lay.

I

have

already

described

the

appearance

of

that

colossal

bulk,

embedded

in

the

ground.

The

turf

and

gravel

about

it

seemed

charred

as

if

by

a

sudden

explosion.

No

doubt

its

impact

had

caused

a

flash

of

fire.

Henderson

and

Ogilvy

were

not

there.

I

think

they

perceived

that

nothing

was

to

be

done

for

the

present,

and

had

gone

away

to

breakfast

at

Henderson’s

house.

There

were

four

or

five

boys

sitting

on

the

edge

of

the

Pit,

with

their

feet

dangling,

and

amusing

themselves—until

I

stopped

them—by

throwing

stones

at

the

giant

mass.

After

I

had

spoken

to

them

about

it,

they

began

playing

at

“touch”

in

and

out

of

the

group

of

bystanders.

Among

these

were

a

couple

of

cyclists,

a

jobbing

gardener

I

employed

sometimes,

a

girl

carrying

a

baby,

Gregg

the

butcher

and

his

little

boy,

and

two

or

three

loafers

and

golf

caddies

who

were

accustomed

to

hang

about

the

railway

station.

There

was

very

little

talking.

Few

of

the

common

people

in

England

had

anything

but

the

vaguest

astronomical

ideas

in

those

days.

Most

of

them

were

staring

quietly

at

the

big

table

like

end

of

the

cylinder,

which

was

still

as

Ogilvy

and

Henderson

had

left

it.

I

fancy

the

popular

expectation

of

a

heap

of

charred

corpses

was

disappointed

at

this

inanimate

bulk.

Some

went

away

while

I

was

there,

and

other

people

came.

I

clambered

into

the

pit

and

fancied

I

heard

a

faint

movement

under

my

feet.

The

top

had

certainly

ceased

to

rotate.

It

was

only

when

I

got

thus

close

to

it

that

the

strangeness

of

this

object

was

at

all

evident

to

me.

At

the

first

glance

it

was

really

no

more

exciting

than

an

overturned

carriage

or

a

tree

blown

across

the

road.

Not

so

much

so,

indeed.

It

looked

like

a

rusty

gas

float.

It

required

a

certain

amount

of

scientific

education

to

perceive

that

the

grey

scale

of

the

Thing

was

no

common

oxide,

that

the

yellowish-white

metal

that

gleamed

in

the

crack

between

the

lid

and

the

cylinder

had

an

unfamiliar

hue.

“Extra-terrestrial”

had

no

meaning

for

most

of

the

onlookers.

At

that

time

it

was

quite

clear

in

my

own

mind

that

the

Thing

had

come

from

the

planet

Mars,

but

I

judged

it

improbable

that

it

contained

any

living

creature.

I

thought

the

unscrewing

might

be

automatic.

In

spite

of

Ogilvy,

I

still

believed

that

there

were

men

in

Mars.

My

mind

ran

fancifully

on

the

possibilities

of

its

containing

manuscript,

on

the

difficulties

in

translation

that

might

arise,

whether

we

should

find

coins

and

models

in

it,

and

so

forth.

Yet

it

was

a

little

too

large

for

assurance

on

this

idea.

I

felt

an

impatience

to

see

it

opened.

About

eleven,

as

nothing

seemed

happening,

I

walked

back,

full

of

such

thought,

to

my

home

in

Maybury.

But

I

found

it

difficult

to

get

to

work

upon

my

abstract

investigations.

In

the

afternoon

the

appearance

of

the

common

had

altered

very

much.

The

early

editions

of

the

evening

papers

had

startled

London

with

enormous

headlines:

“A

MESSAGE

RECEIVED

FROM

MARS.”

“REMARKABLE

STORY

FROM

WOKING,”

and

so

forth.

In

addition,

Ogilvy’s

wire

to

the

Astronomical

Exchange

had

roused

every

observatory

in

the

three

kingdoms.

There

were

half

a

dozen

flys

or

more

from

the

Woking

station

standing

in

the

road

by

the

sand-pits,

a

basket-chaise

from

Chobham,

and

a

rather

lordly

carriage.

Besides

that,

there

was

quite

a

heap

of

bicycles.

In

addition,

a

large

number

of

people

must

have

walked,

in

spite

of

the

heat

of

the

day,

from

Woking

and

Chertsey,

so

that

there

was

altogether

quite

a

considerable

crowd—one

or

two

gaily

dressed

ladies

among

the

others.

It

was

glaringly

hot,

not

a

cloud

in

the

sky

nor

a

breath

of

wind,

and

the

only

shadow

was

that

of

the

few

scattered

pine

trees.

The

burning

heather

had

been

extinguished,

but

the

level

ground

towards

Ottershaw

was

blackened

as

far

as

one

could

see,

and

still

giving

off

vertical

streamers

of

smoke.

An

enterprising

sweet-stuff

dealer

in

the

Chobham

Road

had

sent

up

his

son

with

a

barrow-load

of

green

apples

and

ginger

beer.

Going

to

the

edge

of

the

pit,

I

found

it

occupied

by

a

group

of

about

half

a

dozen

men—Henderson,

Ogilvy,

and

a

tall,

fair-haired

man

that

I

afterwards

learned

was

Stent,

the

Astronomer

Royal,

with

several

workmen

wielding

spades

and

pickaxes.

Stent

was

giving

directions

in

a

clear,

high-pitched

voice.

He

was

standing

on

the

cylinder,

which

was

now

evidently

much

cooler;

his

face

was

crimson

and

streaming

with

perspiration,

and

something

seemed

to

have

irritated

him.

A

large

portion

of

the

cylinder

had

been

uncovered,

though

its

lower

end

was

still

embedded.

As

soon

as

Ogilvy

saw

me

among

the

staring

crowd

on

the

edge

of

the

pit

he

called

to

me

to

come

down,

and

asked

me

if

I

would

mind

going

over

to

see

Lord

Hilton,

the

lord

of

the

manor.

The

growing

crowd,

he

said,

was

becoming

a

serious

impediment

to

their

excavations,

especially

the

boys.

They

wanted

a

light

railing

put

up,

and

help

to

keep

the

people

back.

He

told

me

that

a

faint

stirring

was

occasionally

still

audible

within

the

case,

but

that

the

workmen

had

failed

to

unscrew

the

top,

as

it

afforded

no

grip

to

them.

The

case

appeared

to

be

enormously

thick,

and

it

was

possible

that

the

faint

sounds

we

heard

represented

a

noisy

tumult

in

the

interior.

I

was

very

glad

to

do

as

he

asked,

and

so

become

one

of

the

privileged

spectators

within

the

contemplated

enclosure.

I

failed

to

find

Lord

Hilton

at

his

house,

but

I

was

told

he

was

expected

from

London

by

the

six

o’clock

train

from

Waterloo;

and

as

it

was

then

about

a

quarter

past

five,

I

went

home,

had

some

tea,

and

walked

up

to

the

station

to

waylay

him.

IV.

THE

CYLINDER

OPENS.

When

I

returned

to

the

common

the

sun

was

setting.

Scattered

groups

were

hurrying

from

the

direction

of

Woking,

and

one

or

two

persons

were

returning.

The

crowd

about

the

pit

had

increased,

and

stood

out

black

against

the

lemon

yellow

of

the

sky—a

couple

of

hundred

people,

perhaps.

There

were

raised

voices,

and

some

sort

of

struggle

appeared

to

be

going

on

about

the

pit.

Strange

imaginings

passed

through

my

mind.

As

I

drew

nearer

I

heard

Stent’s

voice:

“Keep

back!

Keep

back!”

A

boy

came

running

towards

me.

“It’s

a-movin’,”

he

said

to

me

as

he

passed;

“a-screwin’

and

a-screwin’

out.

I

don’t

like

it.

I’m

a-goin’

’ome,

I

am.”

I

went

on

to

the

crowd.

There

were

really,

I

should

think,

two

or

three

hundred

people

elbowing

and

jostling

one

another,

the

one

or

two

ladies

there

being

by

no

means

the

least

active.

“He’s

fallen

in

the

pit!”

cried

some

one.

“Keep

back!”

said

several.

The

crowd

swayed

a

little,

and

I

elbowed

my

way

through.

Every

one

seemed

greatly

excited.

I

heard

a

peculiar

humming

sound

from

the

pit.

“I

say!”

said

Ogilvy;

“help

keep

these

idiots

back.

We

don’t

know

what’s

in

the

confounded

thing,

you

know!”

I

saw

a

young

man,

a

shop

assistant

in

Woking

I

believe

he

was,

standing

on

the

cylinder

and

trying

to

scramble

out

of

the

hole

again.

The

crowd

had

pushed

him

in.

The

end

of

the

cylinder

was

being

screwed

out

from

within.

Nearly

two

feet

of

shining

screw

projected.

Somebody

blundered

against

me,

and

I

narrowly

missed

being

pitched

onto

the

top

of

the

screw.

I

turned,

and

as

I

did

so

the

screw

must

have

come

out,

for

the

lid

of

the

cylinder

fell

upon

the

gravel

with

a

ringing

concussion.

I

stuck

my

elbow

into

the

person

behind

me,

and

turned

my

head

towards

the

Thing

again.

For

a

moment

that

circular

cavity

seemed

perfectly

black.

I

had

the

sunset

in

my

eyes.

I

think

everyone

expected

to

see

a

man

emerge—possibly

something

a

little

unlike

us

terrestrial

men,

but

in

all

essentials

a

man.

I

know

I

did.

But,

looking,

I

presently

saw

something

stirring

within

the

shadow:

greyish

billowy

movements,

one

above

another,

and

then

two

luminous

disks—like

eyes.

Then

something

resembling

a

little

grey

snake,

about

the

thickness

of

a

walking

stick,

coiled

up

out

of

the

writhing

middle,

and

wriggled

in

the

air

towards

me—and

then

another.

A

sudden

chill

came

over

me.

There

was

a

loud

shriek

from

a

woman

behind.

I

half

turned,

keeping

my

eyes

fixed

upon

the

cylinder

still,

from

which

other

tentacles

were

now

projecting,

and

began

pushing

my

way

back

from

the

edge

of

the

pit.

I

saw

astonishment

giving

place

to

horror

on

the

faces

of

the

people

about

me.

I

heard

inarticulate

exclamations

on

all

sides.

There

was

a

general

movement

backwards.

I

saw

the

shopman

struggling

still

on

the

edge

of

the

pit.

I

found

myself

alone,

and

saw

the

people

on

the

other

side

of

the

pit

running

off,

Stent

among

them.

I

looked

again

at

the

cylinder,

and

ungovernable

terror

gripped

me.

I

stood

petrified

and

staring.

A

big

greyish

rounded

bulk,

the

size,

perhaps,

of

a

bear,

was

rising

slowly

and

painfully

out

of

the

cylinder.

As

it

bulged

up

and

caught

the

light,

it

glistened

like

wet

leather.

Two

large

dark-coloured

eyes

were

regarding

me

steadfastly.

The

mass

that

framed

them,

the

head

of

the

thing,

was

rounded,

and

had,

one

might

say,

a

face.

There

was

a

mouth

under

the

eyes,

the

lipless

brim

of

which

quivered

and

panted,

and

dropped

saliva.

The

whole

creature

heaved

and

pulsated

convulsively.

A

lank

tentacular

appendage

gripped

the

edge

of

the

cylinder,

another

swayed

in

the

air.

Those

who

have

never

seen

a

living

Martian

can

scarcely

imagine

the

strange

horror

of

its

appearance.

The

peculiar

V-shaped

mouth

with

its

pointed

upper

lip,

the

absence

of

brow

ridges,

the

absence

of

a

chin

beneath

the

wedgelike

lower

lip,

the

incessant

quivering

of

this

mouth,

the

Gorgon

groups

of

tentacles,

the

tumultuous

breathing

of

the

lungs

in

a

strange

atmosphere,

the

evident

heaviness

and

painfulness

of

movement

due

to

the

greater

gravitational

energy

of

the

earth—above

all,

the

extraordinary

intensity

of

the

immense

eyes—were

at

once

vital,

intense,

inhuman,

crippled

and

monstrous.

There

was

something

fungoid

in

the

oily

brown

skin,

something

in

the

clumsy

deliberation

of

the

tedious

movements

unspeakably

nasty.

Even

at

this

first

encounter,

this

first

glimpse,

I

was

overcome

with

disgust

and

dread.

Suddenly

the

monster

vanished.

It

had

toppled

over

the

brim

of

the

cylinder

and

fallen

into

the

pit,

with

a

thud

like

the

fall

of

a

great

mass

of

leather.

I

heard

it

give

a

peculiar

thick

cry,

and

forthwith

another

of

these

creatures

appeared

darkly

in

the

deep

shadow

of

the

aperture.

I

turned

and,

running

madly,

made

for

the

first

group

of

trees,

perhaps

a

hundred

yards

away;

but

I

ran

slantingly

and

stumbling,

for

I

could

not

avert

my

face

from

these

things.

There,

among

some

young

pine

trees

and

furze

bushes,

I

stopped,

panting,

and

waited

further

developments.

The

common

round

the

sand-pits

was

dotted

with

people,

standing

like

myself

in

a

half-fascinated

terror,

staring

at

these

creatures,

or

rather

at

the

heaped

gravel

at

the

edge

of

the

pit

in

which

they

lay.

And

then,

with

a

renewed

horror,

I

saw

a

round,

black

object

bobbing

up

and

down

on

the

edge

of

the

pit.

It

was

the

head

of

the

shopman

who

had

fallen

in,

but

showing

as

a

little

black

object

against

the

hot

western

sun.

Now

he

got

his

shoulder

and

knee

up,

and

again

he

seemed

to

slip

back

until

only

his

head

was

visible.

Suddenly

he

vanished,

and

I

could

have

fancied

a

faint

shriek

had

reached

me.

I

had

a

momentary

impulse

to

go

back

and

help

him

that

my

fears

overruled.

Everything

was

then

quite

invisible,

hidden

by

the

deep

pit

and

the

heap

of

sand

that

the

fall

of

the

cylinder

had

made.

Anyone

coming

along

the

road

from

Chobham

or

Woking

would

have

been

amazed

at

the

sight—a

dwindling

multitude

of

perhaps

a

hundred

people

or

more

standing

in

a

great

irregular

circle,

in

ditches,

behind

bushes,

behind

gates

and

hedges,

saying

little

to

one

another

and

that

in

short,

excited

shouts,

and

staring,

staring

hard

at

a

few

heaps

of

sand.

The

barrow

of

ginger

beer

stood,

a

queer

derelict,

black

against

the

burning

sky,

and

in

the

sand-pits

was

a

row

of

deserted

vehicles

with

their

horses

feeding

out

of

nosebags

or

pawing

the

ground.

V.

THE

HEAT-RAY.

After

the

glimpse

I

had

had

of

the

Martians

emerging

from

the

cylinder

in

which

they

had

come

to

the

earth

from

their

planet,

a

kind

of

fascination

paralysed

my

actions.

I

remained

standing

knee-deep

in

the

heather,

staring

at

the

mound

that

hid

them.

I

was

a

battleground

of

fear

and

curiosity.

I

did

not

dare

to

go

back

towards

the

pit,

but

I

felt

a

passionate

longing

to

peer

into

it.

I

began

walking,

therefore,

in

a

big

curve,

seeking

some

point

of

vantage

and

continually

looking

at

the

sand-heaps

that

hid

these

new-comers

to

our

earth.

Once

a

leash

of

thin

black

whips,

like

the

arms

of

an

octopus,

flashed

across

the

sunset

and

was

immediately

withdrawn,

and

afterwards

a

thin

rod

rose

up,

joint

by

joint,

bearing

at

its

apex

a

circular

disk

that

spun

with

a

wobbling

motion.

What

could

be

going

on

there?

Most

of

the

spectators

had

gathered

in

one

or

two

groups—one

a

little

crowd

towards

Woking,

the

other

a

knot

of

people

in

the

direction

of

Chobham.

Evidently

they

shared

my

mental

conflict.

There

were

few

near

me.

One

man

I

approached—he

was,

I

perceived,

a

neighbour

of

mine,

though

I

did

not

know

his

name—and

accosted.

But

it

was

scarcely

a

time

for

articulate

conversation.

“What

ugly

brutes!”

he

said.

“Good

God!

What

ugly

brutes!”

He

repeated

this

over

and

over

again.

“Did

you

see

a

man

in

the

pit?”

I

said;

but

he

made

no

answer

to

that.

We

became

silent,

and

stood

watching

for

a

time

side

by

side,

deriving,

I

fancy,

a

certain

comfort

in

one

another’s

company.

Then

I

shifted

my

position

to

a

little

knoll

that

gave

me

the

advantage

of

a

yard

or

more

of

elevation

and

when

I

looked

for

him

presently

he

was

walking

towards

Woking.

The

sunset

faded

to

twilight

before

anything

further

happened.

The

crowd

far

away

on

the

left,

towards

Woking,

seemed

to

grow,

and

I

heard

now

a

faint

murmur

from

it.

The

little

knot

of

people

towards

Chobham

dispersed.

There

was

scarcely

an

intimation

of

movement

from

the

pit.

It

was

this,

as

much

as

anything,

that

gave

people

courage,

and

I

suppose

the

new

arrivals

from

Woking

also

helped

to

restore

confidence.

At

any

rate,

as

the

dusk

came

on

a

slow,

intermittent

movement

upon

the

sand-pits

began,

a

movement

that

seemed

to

gather

force

as

the

stillness

of

the

evening

about

the

cylinder

remained

unbroken.

Vertical

black

figures

in

twos

and

threes

would

advance,

stop,

watch,

and

advance

again,

spreading

out

as

they

did

so

in

a

thin

irregular

crescent

that

promised

to

enclose

the

pit

in

its

attenuated

horns.

I,

too,

on

my

side

began

to

move

towards

the

pit.

Then

I

saw

some

cabmen

and

others

had

walked

boldly

into

the

sand-pits,

and

heard

the

clatter

of

hoofs

and

the

gride

of

wheels.

I

saw

a

lad

trundling

off

the

barrow

of

apples.

And

then,

within

thirty

yards

of

the

pit,

advancing

from

the

direction

of

Horsell,

I

noted

a

little

black

knot

of

men,

the

foremost

of

whom

was

waving

a

white

flag.

This

was

the

Deputation.

There

had

been

a

hasty

consultation,

and

since

the

Martians

were

evidently,

in

spite

of

their

repulsive

forms,

intelligent

creatures,

it

had

been

resolved

to

show

them,

by

approaching

them

with

signals,

that

we

too

were

intelligent.

Flutter,

flutter,

went

the

flag,

first

to

the

right,

then

to

the

left.

It

was

too

far

for

me

to

recognise

anyone

there,

but

afterwards

I

learned

that

Ogilvy,

Stent,

and

Henderson

were

with

others

in

this

attempt

at

communication.

This

little

group

had

in

its

advance

dragged

inward,

so

to

speak,

the

circumference

of

the

now

almost

complete

circle

of

people,

and

a

number

of

dim

black

figures

followed

it

at

discreet

distances.

Suddenly

there

was

a

flash

of

light,

and

a

quantity

of

luminous

greenish

smoke

came

out

of

the

pit

in

three

distinct

puffs,

which

drove

up,

one

after

the

other,

straight

into

the

still

air.

This

smoke

(or

flame,

perhaps,

would

be

the

better

word

for

it)

was

so

bright

that

the

deep

blue

sky

overhead

and

the

hazy

stretches

of

brown

common

towards

Chertsey,

set

with

black

pine

trees,

seemed

to

darken

abruptly

as

these

puffs

arose,

and

to

remain

the

darker

after

their

dispersal.

At

the

same

time

a

faint

hissing

sound

became

audible.

Beyond

the

pit

stood

the

little

wedge

of

people

with

the

white

flag

at

its

apex,

arrested

by

these

phenomena,

a

little

knot

of

small

vertical

black

shapes

upon

the

black

ground.

As

the

green

smoke

arose,

their

faces

flashed

out

pallid

green,

and

faded

again

as

it

vanished.

Then

slowly

the

hissing

passed

into

a

humming,

into

a

long,

loud,

droning

noise.

Slowly

a

humped

shape

rose

out

of

the

pit,

and

the

ghost

of

a

beam

of

light

seemed

to

flicker

out

from

it.

Forthwith

flashes

of

actual

flame,

a

bright

glare

leaping

from

one

to

another,

sprang

from

the

scattered

group

of

men.

It

was

as

if

some

invisible

jet

impinged

upon

them

and

flashed

into

white

flame.

It

was

as

if

each

man

were

suddenly

and

momentarily

turned

to

fire.

Then,

by

the

light

of

their

own

destruction,

I

saw

them

staggering

and

falling,

and

their

supporters

turning

to

run.

I

stood

staring,

not

as

yet

realising

that

this

was

death

leaping

from

man

to

man

in

that

little

distant

crowd.

All

I

felt

was

that

it

was

something

very

strange.

An

almost

noiseless

and

blinding

flash

of

light,

and

a

man

fell

headlong

and

lay

still;

and

as

the

unseen

shaft

of

heat

passed

over

them,

pine

trees

burst

into

fire,

and

every

dry

furze

bush

became

with

one

dull

thud

a

mass

of

flames.

And

far

away

towards

Knaphill

I

saw

the

flashes

of

trees

and

hedges

and

wooden

buildings

suddenly

set

alight.

It

was

sweeping

round

swiftly

and

steadily,

this

flaming

death,

this

invisible,

inevitable

sword

of

heat.

I

perceived

it

coming

towards

me

by

the

flashing

bushes

it

touched,

and

was

too

astounded

and

stupefied

to

stir.

I

heard

the

crackle

of

fire

in

the

sand-pits

and

the

sudden

squeal

of

a

horse

that

was

as

suddenly

stilled.

Then

it

was

as

if

an

invisible

yet

intensely

heated

finger

were

drawn

through

the

heather

between

me

and

the

Martians,

and

all

along

a

curving

line

beyond

the

sand-pits

the

dark

ground

smoked

and

crackled.

Something

fell

with

a

crash

far

away

to

the

left

where

the

road

from

Woking

station

opens

out

on

the

common.

Forth-with

the

hissing

and

humming

ceased,

and

the

black,

dome-like

object

sank

slowly

out

of

sight

into

the

pit.

All

this

had

happened

with

such

swiftness

that

I

had

stood

motionless,

dumbfounded

and

dazzled

by

the

flashes

of

light.

Had

that

death

swept

through

a

full

circle,

it

must

inevitably

have

slain

me

in

my

surprise.

But

it

passed

and

spared

me,

and

left

the

night

about

me

suddenly

dark

and

unfamiliar.

The

undulating

common

seemed

now

dark

almost

to

blackness,

except

where

its

roadways

lay

grey

and

pale

under

the

deep

blue

sky

of

the

early

night.

It

was

dark,

and

suddenly

void

of

men.

Overhead

the

stars

were

mustering,

and

in

the

west

the

sky

was

still

a

pale,

bright,

almost

greenish

blue.

The

tops

of

the

pine

trees

and

the

roofs

of

Horsell

came

out

sharp

and

black

against

the

western

afterglow.

The

Martians

and

their

appliances

were

altogether

invisible,

save

for

that

thin

mast

upon

which

their

restless

mirror

wobbled.

Patches

of

bush

and

isolated

trees

here

and

there

smoked

and

glowed

still,

and

the

houses

towards

Woking

station

were

sending

up

spires

of

flame

into

the

stillness

of

the

evening

air.

Nothing

was

changed

save

for

that

and

a

terrible

astonishment.

The

little

group

of

black

specks

with

the

flag

of

white

had

been

swept

out

of

existence,

and

the

stillness

of

the

evening,

so

it

seemed

to

me,

had

scarcely

been

broken.

It

came

to

me

that

I

was

upon

this

dark

common,

helpless,

unprotected,

and

alone.

Suddenly,

like

a

thing

falling

upon

me

from

without,

came—fear.

With

an

effort

I

turned

and

began

a

stumbling

run

through

the

heather.

The

fear

I

felt

was

no

rational

fear,

but

a

panic

terror

not

only

of

the

Martians,

but

of

the

dusk

and

stillness

all

about

me.

Such

an

extraordinary

effect

in

unmanning

me

it

had

that

I

ran

weeping

silently

as

a

child

might

do.

Once

I

had

turned,

I

did

not

dare

to

look

back.

I

remember

I

felt

an

extraordinary

persuasion

that

I

was

being

played

with,

that

presently,

when

I

was

upon

the

very

verge

of

safety,

this

mysterious

death—as

swift

as

the

passage

of

light—would

leap

after

me

from

the

pit

about

the

cylinder,

and

strike

me

down.

VI.

THE

HEAT-RAY

IN

THE

CHOBHAM

ROAD.

It

is

still

a

matter

of

wonder

how

the

Martians

are

able

to

slay

men

so

swiftly

and

so

silently.

Many

think

that

in

some

way

they

are

able

to

generate

an

intense

heat

in

a

chamber

of

practically

absolute

non-conductivity.

This

intense

heat

they

project

in

a

parallel

beam

against

any

object

they

choose,

by

means

of

a

polished

parabolic

mirror

of

unknown

composition,

much

as

the

parabolic

mirror

of

a

lighthouse

projects

a

beam

of

light.

But

no

one

has

absolutely

proved

these

details.

However

it

is

done,

it

is

certain

that

a

beam

of

heat

is

the

essence

of

the

matter.

Heat,

and

invisible,

instead

of

visible,

light.

Whatever

is

combustible

flashes

into

flame

at

its

touch,

lead

runs

like

water,

it

softens

iron,

cracks

and

melts

glass,

and

when

it

falls

upon

water,

incontinently

that

explodes

into

steam.

That

night

nearly

forty

people

lay

under

the

starlight

about

the

pit,

charred

and

distorted

beyond

recognition,

and

all

night

long

the

common

from

Horsell

to

Maybury

was

deserted

and

brightly

ablaze.

The

news

of

the

massacre

probably

reached

Chobham,

Woking,

and

Ottershaw

about

the

same

time.

In

Woking

the

shops

had

closed

when

the

tragedy

happened,

and

a

number

of

people,

shop

people

and

so

forth,

attracted

by

the

stories

they

had

heard,

were

walking

over

the

Horsell

Bridge

and

along

the

road

between

the

hedges

that

runs

out

at

last

upon

the

common.

You

may

imagine

the

young

people

brushed

up

after

the

labours

of

the

day,

and

making

this

novelty,

as

they

would

make

any

novelty,

the

excuse

for

walking

together

and

enjoying

a

trivial

flirtation.

You

may

figure

to

yourself

the

hum

of

voices

along

the

road

in

the

gloaming.

.

.

.

As

yet,

of

course,

few

people

in

Woking

even

knew

that

the

cylinder

had

opened,

though

poor

Henderson

had

sent

a

messenger

on

a

bicycle

to

the

post

office

with

a

special

wire

to

an

evening

paper.

As

these

folks

came

out

by

twos

and

threes

upon

the

open,

they

found

little

knots

of

people

talking

excitedly

and

peering

at

the

spinning

mirror

over

the

sand-pits,

and

the

newcomers

were,

no

doubt,

soon

infected

by

the

excitement

of

the

occasion.

By

half

past

eight,

when

the

Deputation

was

destroyed,

there

may

have

been

a

crowd

of

three

hundred

people

or

more

at

this

place,

besides

those

who

had

left

the

road

to

approach

the

Martians

nearer.

There

were

three

policemen

too,

one

of

whom

was

mounted,

doing

their

best,

under

instructions

from

Stent,

to

keep

the

people

back

and

deter

them

from

approaching

the

cylinder.

There

was

some

booing

from

those

more

thoughtless

and

excitable

souls

to

whom

a

crowd

is

always

an

occasion

for

noise

and

horse-play.

Stent

and

Ogilvy,

anticipating

some

possibilities

of

a

collision,

had

telegraphed

from

Horsell

to

the

barracks

as

soon

as

the

Martians

emerged,

for

the

help

of

a

company

of

soldiers

to

protect

these

strange

creatures

from

violence.

After

that

they

returned

to

lead

that

ill-fated

advance.

The

description

of

their

death,

as

it

was

seen

by

the

crowd,

tallies

very

closely

with

my

own

impressions:

the

three

puffs

of

green

smoke,

the

deep

humming

note,

and

the

flashes

of

flame.

But

that

crowd

of

people

had

a

far

narrower

escape

than

mine.

Only

the

fact

that

a

hummock

of

heathery

sand

intercepted

the

lower

part

of

the

Heat-Ray

saved

them.

Had

the

elevation

of

the

parabolic

mirror

been

a

few

yards

higher,

none

could

have

lived

to

tell

the

tale.

They

saw

the

flashes

and

the

men

falling

and

an

invisible

hand,

as

it

were,

lit

the

bushes

as

it

hurried

towards

them

through

the

twilight.

Then,

with

a

whistling

note

that

rose

above

the

droning

of

the

pit,

the

beam

swung

close

over

their

heads,

lighting

the

tops

of

the

beech

trees

that

line

the

road,

and

splitting

the

bricks,

smashing

the

windows,

firing

the

window

frames,

and

bringing

down

in

crumbling

ruin

a

portion

of

the

gable

of

the

house

nearest

the

corner.

In

the

sudden

thud,

hiss,

and

glare

of

the

igniting

trees,

the

panic-stricken

crowd

seems

to

have

swayed

hesitatingly

for

some

moments.

Sparks

and

burning

twigs

began

to

fall

into

the

road,

and

single

leaves

like

puffs

of

flame.

Hats

and

dresses

caught

fire.

Then

came

a

crying

from

the

common.

There

were

shrieks

and

shouts,

and

suddenly

a

mounted

policeman

came

galloping

through

the

confusion

with

his

hands

clasped

over

his

head,

screaming.

“They’re

coming!”

a

woman

shrieked,

and

incontinently

everyone

was

turning

and

pushing

at

those

behind,

in

order

to

clear

their

way

to

Woking

again.

They

must

have

bolted

as

blindly

as

a

flock

of

sheep.

Where

the

road

grows

narrow

and

black

between

the

high

banks

the

crowd

jammed,

and

a

desperate

struggle

occurred.

All

that

crowd

did

not

escape;

three

persons

at

least,

two

women

and

a

little

boy,

were

crushed

and

trampled

there,

and

left

to

die

amid

the

terror

and

the

darkness.

VII.

HOW

I

REACHED

HOME.

For

my

own

part,

I

remember

nothing

of

my

flight

except

the

stress

of

blundering

against

trees

and

stumbling

through

the

heather.

All

about

me

gathered

the

invisible

terrors

of

the

Martians;

that

pitiless

sword

of

heat

seemed

whirling

to

and

fro,

flourishing

overhead

before

it

descended

and

smote

me

out

of

life.

I

came

into

the

road

between

the

crossroads

and

Horsell,

and

ran

along

this

to

the

crossroads.

At

last

I

could

go

no

further;

I

was

exhausted

with

the

violence

of

my

emotion

and

of

my

flight,

and

I

staggered

and

fell

by

the

wayside.

That

was

near

the

bridge

that

crosses

the

canal

by

the

gasworks.

I

fell

and

lay

still.

I

must

have

remained

there

some

time.

I

sat

up,

strangely

perplexed.

For

a

moment,

perhaps,

I

could

not

clearly

understand

how

I

came

there.

My

terror

had

fallen

from

me

like

a

garment.

My

hat

had

gone,

and

my

collar

had

burst

away

from

its

fastener.

A

few

minutes

before,

there

had

only

been

three

real

things

before

me—the

immensity

of

the

night

and

space

and

nature,

my

own

feebleness

and

anguish,

and

the

near

approach

of

death.

Now

it

was

as

if

something

turned

over,

and

the

point

of

view

altered

abruptly.

There

was

no

sensible

transition

from

one

state

of

mind

to

the

other.

I

was

immediately

the

self

of

every

day

again—a

decent,

ordinary

citizen.

The

silent

common,

the

impulse

of

my

flight,

the

starting

flames,

were

as

if

they

had

been

in

a

dream.

I

asked

myself

had

these

latter

things

indeed

happened?

I

could

not

credit

it.

I

rose

and

walked

unsteadily

up

the

steep

incline

of

the

bridge.

My

mind

was

blank

wonder.

My

muscles

and

nerves

seemed

drained

of

their

strength.

I

dare

say

I

staggered

drunkenly.

A

head

rose

over

the

arch,

and

the

figure

of

a

workman

carrying

a

basket

appeared.

Beside

him

ran

a

little

boy.

He

passed

me,

wishing

me

good

night.

I

was

minded

to

speak

to

him,

but

did

not.

I

answered

his

greeting

with

a

meaningless

mumble

and

went

on

over

the

bridge.

Over

the

Maybury

arch

a

train,

a

billowing

tumult

of

white,

firelit

smoke,

and

a

long

caterpillar

of

lighted

windows,

went

flying

south—clatter,

clatter,

clap,

rap,

and

it

had

gone.

A

dim

group

of

people

talked

in

the

gate

of

one

of

the

houses

in

the

pretty

little

row

of

gables

that

was

called

Oriental

Terrace.

It

was

all

so

real

and

so

familiar.

And

that

behind

me!

It

was

frantic,

fantastic!

Such

things,

I

told

myself,

could

not

be.

Perhaps

I

am

a

man

of

exceptional

moods.

I

do

not

know

how

far

my

experience

is

common.

At

times

I

suffer

from

the

strangest

sense

of

detachment

from

myself

and

the

world

about

me;

I

seem

to

watch

it

all

from

the

outside,

from

somewhere

inconceivably

remote,

out

of

time,

out

of

space,

out

of

the

stress

and

tragedy

of

it

all.

This

feeling

was

very

strong

upon

me

that

night.

Here

was

another

side

to

my

dream.

But

the

trouble

was

the

blank

incongruity

of

this

serenity

and

the

swift

death

flying

yonder,

not

two

miles

away.

There

was

a

noise

of

business

from

the

gasworks,

and

the

electric

lamps

were

all

alight.

I

stopped

at

the

group

of

people.

“What

news

from

the

common?”

said

I.

There

were

two

men

and

a

woman

at

the

gate.

“Eh?”

said

one

of

the

men,

turning.

“What

news

from

the

common?”

I

said.

“Ain’t

yer

just

been

there?”

asked

the

men.

“People

seem

fair

silly

about

the

common,”

said

the

woman

over

the

gate.

“What’s

it

all

abart?”

“Haven’t

you

heard

of

the

men

from

Mars?”

said

I;

“the

creatures

from

Mars?”

“Quite

enough,”

said

the

woman

over

the

gate.

“Thenks”;

and

all

three

of

them

laughed.

I

felt

foolish

and

angry.

I

tried

and

found

I

could

not

tell

them

what

I

had

seen.

They

laughed

again

at

my

broken

sentences.

“You’ll

hear

more

yet,”

I

said,

and

went

on

to

my

home.

I

startled

my

wife

at

the

doorway,

so

haggard

was

I.

I

went

into

the

dining

room,

sat

down,

drank

some

wine,

and

so

soon

as

I

could

collect

myself

sufficiently

I

told

her

the

things

I

had

seen.

The

dinner,

which

was

a

cold

one,

had

already

been

served,

and

remained

neglected

on

the

table

while

I

told

my

story.

“There

is

one

thing,”

I

said,

to

allay

the

fears

I

had

aroused;

“they

are

the

most

sluggish

things

I

ever

saw

crawl.

They

may

keep

the

pit

and

kill

people

who

come

near

them,

but

they

cannot

get

out

of

it.

.

.

.

But

the

horror

of

them!”

“Don’t,

dear!”

said

my

wife,

knitting

her

brows

and

putting

her

hand

on

mine.

“Poor

Ogilvy!”

I

said.

“To

think

he

may

be

lying

dead

there!”

My

wife

at

least

did

not

find

my

experience

incredible.

When

I

saw

how

deadly

white

her

face

was,

I

ceased

abruptly.

“They

may

come

here,”

she

said

again

and

again.

I

pressed

her

to

take

wine,

and

tried

to

reassure

her.

“They

can

scarcely

move,”

I

said.

I

began

to

comfort

her

and

myself

by

repeating

all

that

Ogilvy

had

told

me

of

the

impossibility

of

the

Martians

establishing

themselves

on

the

earth.

In

particular

I

laid

stress

on

the

gravitational

difficulty.

On

the

surface

of

the

earth

the

force

of

gravity

is

three

times

what

it

is

on

the

surface

of

Mars.

A

Martian,

therefore,

would

weigh

three

times

more

than

on

Mars,

albeit

his

muscular

strength

would

be

the

same.

His

own

body

would

be

a

cope

of

lead

to

him,

therefore.

That,

indeed,

was

the

general

opinion.

Both

The

Times

and

the

Daily

Telegraph,

for

instance,

insisted

on

it

the

next

morning,

and

both

overlooked,

just

as

I

did,

two

obvious

modifying

influences.

The

atmosphere

of

the

earth,

we

now

know,

contains

far

more

oxygen

or

far

less

argon

(whichever

way

one

likes

to

put

it)

than

does

Mars’.

The

invigorating

influences

of

this

excess

of

oxygen

upon

the

Martians

indisputably

did

much

to

counterbalance

the

increased

weight

of

their

bodies.

And,

in

the

second

place,

we

all

overlooked

the

fact

that

such

mechanical

intelligence

as

the

Martian

possessed

was

quite

able

to

dispense

with

muscular

exertion

at

a

pinch.

But

I

did

not

consider

these

points

at

the

time,

and

so

my

reasoning

was

dead

against

the

chances

of

the

invaders.

With

wine

and

food,

the

confidence

of

my

own

table,

and

the

necessity

of

reassuring

my

wife,

I

grew

by

insensible

degrees

courageous

and

secure.

“They

have

done

a

foolish

thing,”

said

I,

fingering

my

wineglass.

“They

are

dangerous

because,

no

doubt,

they

are

mad

with

terror.

Perhaps

they

expected

to

find

no

living

things—certainly

no

intelligent

living

things.”

“A

shell

in

the

pit,”

said

I,

“if

the

worst

comes

to

the

worst,

will

kill

them

all.”

The

intense

excitement

of

the

events

had

no

doubt

left

my

perceptive

powers

in

a

state

of

erethism.

I

remember

that

dinner

table

with

extraordinary

vividness

even

now.

My

dear

wife’s

sweet

anxious

face

peering

at

me

from

under

the

pink

lamp

shade,

the

white

cloth

with

its

silver

and

glass

table

furniture—for

in

those

days

even

philosophical

writers

had

many

little

luxuries—the

crimson-purple

wine

in

my

glass,

are

photographically

distinct.

At

the

end

of

it

I

sat,

tempering

nuts

with

a

cigarette,

regretting

Ogilvy’s

rashness,

and

denouncing

the

short-sighted

timidity

of

the

Martians.

So

some

respectable

dodo

in

the

Mauritius

might

have

lorded

it

in

his

nest,

and

discussed

the

arrival

of

that

shipful

of

pitiless

sailors

in

want

of

animal

food.

“We

will

peck

them

to

death

tomorrow,

my

dear.”

I

did

not

know

it,

but

that

was

the

last

civilised

dinner

I

was

to

eat

for

very

many

strange

and

terrible

days.

VIII.

FRIDAY

NIGHT.

The

most

extraordinary

thing

to

my

mind,

of

all

the

strange

and

wonderful

things

that

happened

upon

that

Friday,

was

the

dovetailing

of

the

commonplace

habits

of

our

social

order

with

the

first

beginnings

of

the

series

of

events

that

was

to

topple

that

social

order

headlong.

If

on

Friday

night

you

had

taken

a

pair

of

compasses

and

drawn

a

circle

with

a

radius

of

five

miles

round

the

Woking

sand-pits,

I

doubt

if

you

would

have

had

one

human

being

outside

it,

unless

it

were

some

relation

of

Stent

or

of

the

three

or

four

cyclists

or

London

people

lying

dead

on

the

common,

whose

emotions

or

habits

were

at

all

affected

by

the

new-comers.

Many

people

had

heard

of

the

cylinder,

of

course,

and

talked

about

it

in

their

leisure,

but

it

certainly

did

not

make

the

sensation

that

an

ultimatum

to

Germany

would

have

done.

In

London

that

night

poor

Henderson’s

telegram

describing

the

gradual

unscrewing

of

the

shot

was

judged

to

be

a

canard,

and

his

evening

paper,

after

wiring

for

authentication

from

him

and

receiving

no

reply—the

man

was

killed—decided

not

to

print

a

special

edition.

Even

within

the

five-mile

circle

the

great

majority

of

people

were

inert.

I

have

already

described

the

behaviour

of

the

men

and

women

to

whom

I

spoke.

All

over

the

district

people

were

dining

and

supping;

working

men

were

gardening

after

the

labours

of

the

day,

children

were

being

put

to

bed,

young

people

were

wandering

through

the

lanes

love-making,

students

sat

over

their

books.

Maybe

there

was

a

murmur

in

the

village

streets,

a

novel

and

dominant

topic

in

the

public-houses,

and

here

and

there

a

messenger,

or

even

an

eye-witness

of

the

later

occurrences,

caused

a

whirl

of

excitement,

a

shouting,

and

a

running

to

and

fro;

but

for

the

most

part

the

daily

routine

of

working,

eating,

drinking,

sleeping,

went

on

as

it

had

done

for

countless

years—as

though

no

planet

Mars

existed

in

the

sky.

Even

at

Woking

station

and

Horsell

and

Chobham

that

was

the

case.

In

Woking

junction,

until

a

late

hour,

trains

were

stopping

and

going

on,

others

were

shunting

on

the

sidings,

passengers

were

alighting

and

waiting,

and

everything

was

proceeding

in

the

most

ordinary

way.

A

boy

from

the

town,

trenching

on

Smith’s

monopoly,

was

selling

papers

with

the

afternoon’s

news.

The

ringing

impact

of

trucks,

the

sharp

whistle

of

the

engines

from

the

junction,

mingled

with

their

shouts

of

“Men

from

Mars!”

Excited

men

came

into

the

station

about

nine

o’clock

with

incredible

tidings,

and

caused

no

more

disturbance

than

drunkards

might

have

done.

People

rattling

Londonwards

peered

into

the

darkness

outside

the

carriage

windows,

and

saw

only

a

rare,

flickering,

vanishing

spark

dance

up

from

the

direction

of

Horsell,

a

red

glow

and

a

thin

veil

of

smoke

driving

across

the

stars,

and

thought

that

nothing

more

serious

than

a

heath

fire

was

happening.

It

was

only

round

the

edge

of

the

common

that

any

disturbance

was

perceptible.

There

were

half

a

dozen

villas

burning

on

the

Woking

border.

There

were

lights

in

all

the

houses

on

the

common

side

of

the

three

villages,

and

the

people

there

kept

awake

till

dawn.

A

curious

crowd

lingered

restlessly,

people

coming

and

going

but

the

crowd

remaining,

both

on

the

Chobham

and

Horsell

bridges.

One

or

two

adventurous

souls,

it

was

afterwards

found,

went

into

the

darkness

and

crawled

quite

near

the

Martians;

but

they

never

returned,

for

now

and

again

a

light-ray,

like

the

beam

of

a

warship’s

searchlight

swept

the

common,

and

the

Heat-Ray

was

ready

to

follow.

Save

for

such,

that

big

area

of

common

was

silent

and

desolate,

and

the

charred

bodies

lay

about

on

it

all

night

under

the

stars,

and

all

the

next

day.

A

noise

of

hammering

from

the

pit

was

heard

by

many

people.

So

you

have

the

state

of

things

on

Friday

night.

In

the

centre,

sticking

into

the

skin

of

our

old

planet

Earth

like

a

poisoned

dart,

was

this

cylinder.

But

the

poison

was

scarcely

working

yet.

Around

it

was

a

patch

of

silent

common,

smouldering

in

places,

and

with

a

few

dark,

dimly

seen

objects

lying

in

contorted

attitudes

here

and

there.

Here

and

there

was

a

burning

bush

or

tree.

Beyond

was

a

fringe

of

excitement,

and

farther

than

that

fringe

the

inflammation

had

not

crept

as

yet.

In

the

rest

of

the

world

the

stream

of

life

still

flowed

as

it

had

flowed

for

immemorial

years.

The

fever

of

war

that

would

presently

clog

vein

and

artery,

deaden

nerve

and

destroy

brain,

had

still

to

develop.

All

night

long

the

Martians

were

hammering

and

stirring,

sleepless,

indefatigable,

at

work

upon

the

machines

they

were

making

ready,

and

ever

and

again

a

puff

of

greenish-white

smoke

whirled

up

to

the

starlit

sky.

About

eleven

a

company

of

soldiers

came

through

Horsell,

and

deployed

along

the

edge

of

the

common

to

form

a

cordon.

Later

a

second

company

marched

through

Chobham

to

deploy

on

the

north

side

of

the

common.

Several

officers

from

the

Inkerman

barracks

had

been

on

the

common

earlier

in

the

day,

and

one,

Major

Eden,

was

reported

to

be

missing.

The

colonel

of

the

regiment

came

to

the

Chobham

bridge

and

was

busy

questioning

the

crowd

at

midnight.

The

military

authorities

were

certainly

alive

to

the

seriousness

of

the

business.

About

eleven,

the

next

morning’s

papers

were

able

to

say,

a

squadron

of

hussars,

two

Maxims,

and

about

four

hundred

men

of

the

Cardigan

regiment

started

from

Aldershot.

A

few

seconds

after

midnight

the

crowd

in

the

Chertsey

road,

Woking,

saw

a

star

fall

from

heaven

into

the

pine

woods

to

the

northwest.

It

had

a

greenish

colour,

and

caused

a

silent

brightness

like

summer

lightning.

This

was

the

second

cylinder.

IX.

THE

FIGHTING

BEGINS.

Saturday

lives

in

my

memory

as

a

day

of

suspense.

It

was

a

day

of

lassitude

too,

hot

and

close,

with,

I

am

told,

a

rapidly

fluctuating

barometer.

I

had

slept

but

little,

though

my

wife

had

succeeded

in

sleeping,

and

I

rose

early.

I

went

into

my

garden

before

breakfast

and

stood

listening,

but

towards

the

common

there

was

nothing

stirring

but

a

lark.

The

milkman

came

as

usual.

I

heard

the

rattle

of

his

chariot

and

I

went

round

to

the

side

gate

to

ask

the

latest

news.

He

told

me

that

during

the

night

the

Martians

had

been

surrounded

by

troops,

and

that

guns

were

expected.

Then—a

familiar,

reassuring

note—I

heard

a

train

running

towards

Woking.

“They

aren’t

to

be

killed,”

said

the

milkman,

“if

that

can

possibly

be

avoided.”

I

saw

my

neighbour

gardening,

chatted

with

him

for

a

time,

and

then

strolled

in

to

breakfast.

It

was

a

most

unexceptional

morning.

My

neighbour

was

of

opinion

that

the

troops

would

be

able

to

capture

or

to

destroy

the

Martians

during

the

day.

“It’s

a

pity

they

make

themselves

so

unapproachable,”

he

said.

“It

would

be

curious

to

know

how

they

live

on

another

planet;

we

might

learn

a

thing

or

two.”

He

came

up

to

the

fence

and

extended

a

handful

of

strawberries,

for

his

gardening

was

as

generous

as

it

was

enthusiastic.

At

the

same

time

he

told

me

of

the

burning

of

the

pine

woods

about

the

Byfleet

Golf

Links.

“They

say,”

said

he,

“that

there’s

another

of

those

blessed

things

fallen

there—number

two.

But

one’s

enough,

surely.

This

lot’ll

cost

the

insurance

people

a

pretty

penny

before

everything’s

settled.”

He

laughed

with

an

air

of

the

greatest

good

humour

as

he

said

this.

The

woods,

he

said,

were

still

burning,

and

pointed

out

a

haze

of

smoke

to

me.

“They

will

be

hot

under

foot

for

days,

on

account

of

the

thick

soil

of

pine

needles

and

turf,”

he

said,

and

then

grew

serious

over

“poor

Ogilvy.”

After

breakfast,

instead

of

working,

I

decided

to

walk

down

towards

the

common.

Under

the

railway

bridge

I

found

a

group

of

soldiers—sappers,

I

think,

men

in

small

round

caps,

dirty

red

jackets

unbuttoned,

and

showing

their

blue

shirts,

dark

trousers,

and

boots

coming

to

the

calf.

They

told

me

no

one

was

allowed

over

the

canal,

and,

looking

along

the

road

towards

the

bridge,

I

saw

one

of

the

Cardigan

men

standing

sentinel

there.

I

talked

with

these

soldiers

for

a

time;

I

told

them

of

my

sight

of

the

Martians

on

the

previous

evening.

None

of

them

had

seen

the

Martians,

and

they

had

but

the

vaguest

ideas

of

them,

so

that

they

plied

me

with

questions.

They

said

that

they

did

not

know

who

had

authorised

the

movements

of

the

troops;

their

idea

was

that

a

dispute

had

arisen

at

the

Horse

Guards.

The

ordinary

sapper

is

a

great

deal

better

educated

than

the

common

soldier,

and

they

discussed

the

peculiar

conditions

of

the

possible

fight

with

some

acuteness.

I

described

the

Heat-Ray

to

them,

and

they

began

to

argue

among

themselves.

“Crawl

up

under

cover

and

rush

’em,

say

I,”

said

one.

“Get

aht!”

said

another.

“What’s

cover

against

this

’ere

’eat?

Sticks

to

cook

yer!

What

we

got

to

do

is

to

go

as

near

as

the

ground’ll

let

us,

and

then

drive

a

trench.”

“Blow

yer

trenches!

You

always

want

trenches;

you

ought

to

ha’

been

born

a

rabbit

Snippy.”

“Ain’t

they

got

any

necks,

then?”

said

a

third,

abruptly—a

little,

contemplative,

dark

man,

smoking

a

pipe.

I

repeated

my

description.

“Octopuses,”

said

he,

“that’s

what

I

calls

’em.

Talk

about

fishers

of

men—fighters

of

fish

it

is

this

time!”

“It

ain’t

no

murder

killing

beasts

like

that,”

said

the

first

speaker.

“Why

not

shell

the

darned

things

strite

off

and

finish

’em?”

said

the

little

dark

man.

“You

carn

tell

what

they

might

do.”

“Where’s

your

shells?”

said

the

first

speaker.

“There

ain’t

no

time.

Do

it

in

a

rush,

that’s

my

tip,

and

do

it

at

once.”

So

they

discussed

it.

After

a

while

I

left

them,

and

went

on

to

the

railway

station

to

get

as

many

morning

papers

as

I

could.

But

I

will

not

weary

the

reader

with

a

description

of

that

long

morning

and

of

the

longer

afternoon.

I

did

not

succeed

in

getting

a

glimpse

of

the

common,

for

even

Horsell

and

Chobham

church

towers

were

in

the

hands

of

the

military

authorities.

The

soldiers

I

addressed

didn’t

know

anything;

the

officers

were

mysterious

as

well

as

busy.

I

found

people

in

the

town

quite

secure

again

in

the

presence

of

the

military,

and

I

heard

for

the

first

time

from

Marshall,

the

tobacconist,

that

his

son

was

among

the

dead

on

the

common.

The

soldiers

had

made

the

people

on

the

outskirts

of

Horsell

lock

up

and

leave

their

houses.

I

got

back

to

lunch

about

two,

very

tired

for,

as

I

have

said,

the

day

was

extremely

hot

and

dull;

and

in

order

to

refresh

myself

I

took

a

cold

bath

in

the

afternoon.

About

half

past

four

I

went

up

to

the

railway

station

to

get

an

evening

paper,

for

the

morning

papers

had

contained

only

a

very

inaccurate

description

of

the

killing

of

Stent,

Henderson,

Ogilvy,

and

the

others.

But

there

was

little

I

didn’t

know.

The

Martians

did

not

show

an

inch

of

themselves.

They

seemed

busy

in

their

pit,

and

there

was

a

sound

of

hammering

and

an

almost

continuous

streamer

of

smoke.

Apparently

they

were

busy

getting

ready

for

a

struggle.

“Fresh

attempts

have

been

made

to

signal,

but

without

success,”

was

the

stereotyped

formula

of

the

papers.

A

sapper

told

me

it

was

done

by

a

man

in

a

ditch

with

a

flag

on

a

long

pole.

The

Martians

took

as

much

notice

of

such

advances

as

we

should

of

the

lowing

of

a

cow.

I

must

confess

the

sight

of

all

this

armament,

all

this

preparation,

greatly

excited

me.

My

imagination

became

belligerent,

and

defeated

the

invaders

in

a

dozen

striking

ways;

something

of

my

schoolboy

dreams

of

battle

and

heroism

came

back.

It

hardly

seemed

a

fair

fight

to

me

at

that

time.

They

seemed

very

helpless

in

that

pit

of

theirs.

About

three

o’clock

there

began

the

thud

of

a

gun

at

measured

intervals

from

Chertsey

or

Addlestone.

I

learned

that

the

smouldering

pine

wood

into

which

the

second

cylinder

had

fallen

was

being

shelled,

in

the

hope

of

destroying

that

object

before

it

opened.

It

was

only

about

five,

however,

that

a

field

gun

reached

Chobham

for

use

against

the

first

body

of

Martians.

About

six

in

the

evening,

as

I

sat

at

tea

with

my

wife

in

the

summerhouse

talking

vigorously

about

the

battle

that

was

lowering

upon

us,

I

heard

a

muffled

detonation

from

the

common,

and

immediately

after

a

gust

of

firing.

Close

on

the

heels

of

that

came

a

violent

rattling

crash,

quite

close

to

us,

that

shook

the

ground;

and,

starting

out

upon

the

lawn,

I

saw

the

tops

of

the

trees

about

the

Oriental

College

burst

into

smoky

red

flame,

and

the

tower

of

the

little

church

beside

it

slide

down

into

ruin.

The

pinnacle

of

the

mosque

had

vanished,

and

the

roof

line

of

the

college

itself

looked

as

if

a

hundred-ton

gun

had

been

at

work

upon

it.

One

of

our

chimneys

cracked

as

if

a

shot

had

hit

it,

flew,

and

a

piece

of

it

came

clattering

down

the

tiles

and

made

a

heap

of

broken

red

fragments

upon

the

flower

bed

by

my

study

window.

I

and

my

wife

stood

amazed.

Then

I

realised

that

the

crest

of

Maybury

Hill

must

be

within

range

of

the

Martians’

Heat-Ray

now

that

the

college

was

cleared

out

of

the

way.

At

that

I

gripped

my

wife’s

arm,

and

without

ceremony

ran

her

out

into

the

road.

Then

I

fetched

out

the

servant,

telling

her

I

would

go

upstairs

myself

for

the

box

she

was

clamouring

for.

“We

can’t

possibly

stay

here,”

I

said;

and

as

I

spoke

the

firing

reopened

for

a

moment

upon

the

common.

“But

where

are

we

to

go?”

said

my

wife

in

terror.

I

thought

perplexed.

Then

I

remembered

her

cousins

at

Leatherhead.

“Leatherhead!”

I

shouted

above

the

sudden

noise.

She

looked

away

from

me

downhill.

The

people

were

coming

out

of

their

houses,

astonished.

“How

are

we

to

get

to

Leatherhead?”

she

said.

Down

the

hill

I

saw

a

bevy

of

hussars

ride

under

the

railway

bridge;

three

galloped

through

the

open

gates

of

the

Oriental

College;

two

others

dismounted,

and

began

running

from

house

to

house.

The

sun,

shining

through

the

smoke

that

drove

up

from

the

tops

of

the

trees,

seemed

blood

red,

and

threw

an

unfamiliar

lurid

light

upon

everything.

“Stop

here,”

said

I;

“you

are

safe

here”;

and

I

started

off

at

once

for

the

Spotted

Dog,

for

I

knew

the

landlord

had

a

horse

and

dog

cart.

I

ran,

for

I

perceived

that

in

a

moment

everyone

upon

this

side

of

the

hill

would

be

moving.

I

found

him

in

his

bar,

quite

unaware

of

what

was

going

on

behind

his

house.

A

man

stood

with

his

back

to

me,

talking

to

him.

“I

must

have

a

pound,”

said

the

landlord,

“and

I’ve

no

one

to

drive

it.”

“I’ll

give

you

two,”

said

I,

over

the

stranger’s

shoulder.

“What

for?”

“And

I’ll

bring

it

back

by

midnight,”

I

said.

“Lord!”

said

the

landlord;

“what’s

the

hurry?

I’m

selling

my

bit

of

a

pig.

Two

pounds,

and

you

bring

it

back?

What’s

going

on

now?”

I

explained

hastily

that

I

had

to

leave

my

home,

and

so

secured

the

dog

cart.

At

the

time

it

did

not

seem

to

me

nearly

so

urgent

that

the

landlord

should

leave

his.

I

took

care

to

have

the

cart

there

and

then,

drove

it

off

down

the

road,

and,

leaving

it

in

charge

of

my

wife

and

servant,

rushed

into

my

house

and

packed

a

few

valuables,

such

plate

as

we

had,

and

so

forth.

The

beech

trees

below

the

house

were

burning

while

I

did

this,

and

the

palings

up

the

road

glowed

red.

While

I

was

occupied

in

this

way,

one

of

the

dismounted

hussars

came

running

up.

He

was

going

from

house

to

house,

warning

people

to

leave.

He

was

going

on

as

I

came

out

of

my

front

door,

lugging

my

treasures,

done

up

in

a

tablecloth.

I

shouted

after

him:

“What

news?”

He

turned,

stared,

bawled

something

about

“crawling

out

in

a

thing

like

a

dish

cover,”

and

ran

on

to

the

gate

of

the

house

at

the

crest.

A

sudden

whirl

of

black

smoke

driving

across

the

road

hid

him

for

a

moment.

I

ran

to

my

neighbour’s

door

and

rapped

to

satisfy

myself

of

what

I

already

knew,

that

his

wife

had

gone

to

London

with

him

and

had

locked

up

their

house.

I

went

in

again,

according

to

my

promise,

to

get

my

servant’s

box,

lugged

it

out,

clapped

it

beside

her

on

the

tail

of

the

dog

cart,

and

then

caught

the

reins

and

jumped

up

into

the

driver’s

seat

beside

my

wife.

In

another

moment

we

were

clear

of

the

smoke

and

noise,

and

spanking

down

the

opposite

slope

of

Maybury

Hill

towards

Old

Woking.

In

front

was

a

quiet

sunny

landscape,

a

wheat

field

ahead

on

either

side

of

the

road,

and

the

Maybury

Inn

with

its

swinging

sign.

I

saw

the

doctor’s

cart

ahead

of

me.

At

the

bottom

of

the

hill

I

turned

my

head

to

look

at

the

hillside

I

was

leaving.

Thick

streamers

of

black

smoke

shot

with

threads

of

red

fire

were

driving

up

into

the

still

air,

and

throwing

dark

shadows

upon

the

green

treetops

eastward.

The

smoke

already

extended

far

away

to

the

east

and

west—to

the

Byfleet

pine

woods

eastward,

and

to

Woking

on

the

west.

The

road

was

dotted

with

people

running

towards

us.

And

very

faint

now,

but

very

distinct

through

the

hot,

quiet

air,

one

heard

the

whirr

of

a

machine-gun

that

was

presently

stilled,

and

an

intermittent

cracking

of

rifles.

Apparently

the

Martians

were

setting

fire

to

everything

within

range

of

their

Heat-Ray.

I

am

not

an

expert

driver,

and

I

had

immediately

to

turn

my

attention

to

the

horse.

When

I

looked

back

again

the

second

hill

had

hidden

the

black

smoke.

I

slashed

the

horse

with

the

whip,

and

gave

him

a

loose

rein

until

Woking

and

Send

lay

between

us

and

that

quivering

tumult.

I

overtook

and

passed

the

doctor

between

Woking

and

Send.

X.

IN

THE

STORM.

Leatherhead

is

about

twelve

miles

from

Maybury

Hill.

The

scent

of

hay

was

in

the

air

through

the

lush

meadows

beyond

Pyrford,

and

the

hedges

on

either

side

were

sweet

and

gay

with

multitudes

of

dog-roses.

The

heavy

firing

that

had

broken

out

while

we

were

driving

down

Maybury

Hill

ceased

as

abruptly

as

it

began,

leaving

the

evening

very

peaceful

and

still.

We

got

to

Leatherhead

without

misadventure

about

nine

o’clock,

and

the

horse

had

an

hour’s

rest

while

I

took

supper

with

my

cousins

and

commended

my

wife

to

their

care.

My

wife

was

curiously

silent

throughout

the

drive,

and

seemed

oppressed

with

forebodings

of

evil.

I

talked

to

her

reassuringly,

pointing

out

that

the

Martians

were

tied

to

the

pit

by

sheer

heaviness,

and

at

the

utmost

could

but

crawl

a

little

out

of

it;

but

she

answered

only

in

monosyllables.

Had

it

not

been

for

my

promise

to

the

innkeeper,

she

would,

I

think,

have

urged

me

to

stay

in

Leatherhead

that

night.

Would

that

I

had!

Her

face,

I

remember,

was

very

white

as

we

parted.

For

my

own

part,

I

had

been

feverishly

excited

all

day.

Something

very

like

the

war

fever

that

occasionally

runs

through

a

civilised

community

had

got

into

my

blood,

and

in

my

heart

I

was

not

so

very

sorry

that

I

had

to

return

to

Maybury

that

night.

I

was

even

afraid

that

that

last

fusillade

I

had

heard

might

mean

the

extermination

of

our

invaders

from

Mars.

I

can

best

express

my

state

of

mind

by

saying

that

I

wanted

to

be

in

at

the

death.

It

was

nearly

eleven

when

I

started

to

return.

The

night

was

unexpectedly

dark;

to

me,

walking

out

of

the

lighted

passage

of

my

cousins’

house,

it

seemed

indeed

black,

and

it

was

as

hot

and

close

as

the

day.

Overhead

the

clouds

were

driving

fast,

albeit

not

a

breath

stirred

the

shrubs

about

us.

My

cousins’

man

lit

both

lamps.

Happily,

I

knew

the

road

intimately.

My

wife

stood

in

the

light

of

the

doorway,

and

watched

me

until

I

jumped

up

into

the

dog

cart.

Then

abruptly

she

turned

and

went

in,

leaving

my

cousins

side

by

side

wishing

me

good

hap.

I

was

a

little

depressed

at

first

with

the

contagion

of

my

wife’s

fears,

but

very

soon

my

thoughts

reverted

to

the

Martians.

At

that

time

I

was

absolutely

in

the

dark

as

to

the

course

of

the

evening’s

fighting.

I

did

not

know

even

the

circumstances

that

had

precipitated

the

conflict.

As

I

came

through

Ockham

(for

that

was

the

way

I

returned,

and

not

through

Send

and

Old

Woking)

I

saw

along

the

western

horizon

a

blood-red

glow,

which

as

I

drew

nearer,

crept

slowly

up

the

sky.

The

driving

clouds

of

the

gathering

thunderstorm

mingled

there

with

masses

of

black

and

red

smoke.

Ripley

Street

was

deserted,

and

except

for

a

lighted

window

or

so

the

village

showed

not

a

sign

of

life;

but

I

narrowly

escaped

an

accident

at

the

corner

of

the

road

to

Pyrford,

where

a

knot

of

people

stood

with

their

backs

to

me.

They

said

nothing

to

me

as

I

passed.

I

do

not

know

what

they

knew

of

the

things

happening

beyond

the

hill,

nor

do

I

know

if

the

silent

houses

I

passed

on

my

way

were

sleeping

securely,

or

deserted

and

empty,

or

harassed

and

watching

against

the

terror

of

the

night.

From

Ripley

until

I

came

through

Pyrford

I

was

in

the

valley

of

the

Wey,

and

the

red

glare

was

hidden

from

me.

As

I

ascended

the

little

hill

beyond

Pyrford

Church

the

glare

came

into

view

again,

and

the

trees

about

me

shivered

with

the

first

intimation

of

the

storm

that

was

upon

me.

Then

I

heard

midnight

pealing

out

from

Pyrford

Church

behind

me,

and

then

came

the

silhouette

of

Maybury

Hill,

with

its

tree-tops

and

roofs

black

and

sharp

against

the

red.

Even

as

I

beheld

this

a

lurid

green

glare

lit

the

road

about

me

and

showed

the

distant

woods

towards

Addlestone.

I

felt

a

tug

at

the

reins.

I

saw

that

the

driving

clouds

had

been

pierced

as

it

were

by

a

thread

of

green

fire,

suddenly

lighting

their

confusion

and

falling

into

the

field

to

my

left.

It

was

the

third

falling

star!

Close

on

its

apparition,

and

blindingly

violet

by

contrast,

danced

out

the

first

lightning

of

the

gathering

storm,

and

the

thunder

burst

like

a

rocket

overhead.

The

horse

took

the

bit

between

his

teeth

and

bolted.

A

moderate

incline

runs

towards

the

foot

of

Maybury

Hill,

and

down

this

we

clattered.

Once

the

lightning

had

begun,

it

went

on

in

as

rapid

a

succession

of

flashes

as

I

have

ever

seen.

The

thunderclaps,

treading

one

on

the

heels

of

another

and

with

a

strange

crackling

accompaniment,

sounded

more

like

the

working

of

a

gigantic

electric

machine

than

the

usual

detonating

reverberations.

The

flickering

light

was

blinding

and

confusing,

and

a

thin

hail

smote

gustily

at

my

face

as

I

drove

down

the

slope.

At

first

I

regarded

little

but

the

road

before

me,

and

then

abruptly

my

attention

was

arrested

by

something

that

was

moving

rapidly

down

the

opposite

slope

of

Maybury

Hill.

At

first

I

took

it

for

the

wet

roof

of

a

house,

but

one

flash

following

another

showed

it

to

be

in

swift

rolling

movement.

It

was

an

elusive

vision—a

moment

of

bewildering

darkness,

and

then,

in

a

flash

like

daylight,

the

red

masses

of

the

Orphanage

near

the

crest

of

the

hill,

the

green

tops

of

the

pine

trees,

and

this

problematical

object

came

out

clear

and

sharp

and

bright.

And

this

Thing

I

saw!

How

can

I

describe

it?

A

monstrous

tripod,

higher

than

many

houses,

striding

over

the

young

pine

trees,

and

smashing

them

aside

in

its

career;

a

walking

engine

of

glittering

metal,

striding

now

across

the

heather;

articulate

ropes

of

steel

dangling

from

it,

and

the

clattering

tumult

of

its

passage

mingling

with

the

riot

of

the

thunder.

A

flash,

and

it

came

out

vividly,

heeling

over

one

way

with

two

feet

in

the

air,

to

vanish

and

reappear

almost

instantly

as

it

seemed,

with

the

next

flash,

a

hundred

yards

nearer.

Can

you

imagine

a

milking

stool

tilted

and

bowled

violently

along

the

ground?

That

was

the

impression

those

instant

flashes

gave.

But

instead

of

a

milking

stool

imagine

it

a

great

body

of

machinery

on

a

tripod

stand.

Then

suddenly

the

trees

in

the

pine

wood

ahead

of

me

were

parted,

as

brittle

reeds

are

parted

by

a

man

thrusting

through

them;

they

were

snapped

off

and

driven

headlong,

and

a

second

huge

tripod

appeared,

rushing,

as

it

seemed,

headlong

towards

me.

And

I

was

galloping

hard

to

meet

it!

At

the

sight

of

the

second

monster

my

nerve

went

altogether.

Not

stopping

to

look

again,

I

wrenched

the

horse’s

head

hard

round

to

the

right

and

in

another

moment

the

dog

cart

had

heeled

over

upon

the

horse;

the

shafts

smashed

noisily,

and

I

was

flung

sideways

and

fell

heavily

into

a

shallow

pool

of

water.

I

crawled

out

almost

immediately,

and

crouched,

my

feet

still

in

the

water,

under

a

clump

of

furze.

The

horse

lay

motionless

(his

neck

was

broken,

poor

brute!)

and

by

the

lightning

flashes

I

saw

the

black

bulk

of

the

overturned

dog

cart

and

the

silhouette

of

the

wheel

still

spinning

slowly.

In

another

moment

the

colossal

mechanism

went

striding

by

me,

and

passed

uphill

towards

Pyrford.

Seen

nearer,

the

Thing

was

incredibly

strange,

for

it

was

no

mere

insensate

machine

driving

on

its

way.

Machine

it

was,

with

a

ringing

metallic

pace,

and

long,

flexible,

glittering

tentacles

(one

of

which

gripped

a

young

pine

tree)

swinging

and

rattling

about

its

strange

body.

It

picked

its

road

as

it

went

striding

along,

and

the

brazen

hood

that

surmounted

it

moved

to

and

fro

with

the

inevitable

suggestion

of

a

head

looking

about.

Behind

the

main

body

was

a

huge

mass

of

white

metal

like

a

gigantic

fisherman’s

basket,

and

puffs

of

green

smoke

squirted

out

from

the

joints

of

the

limbs

as

the

monster

swept

by

me.

And

in

an

instant

it

was

gone.

So

much

I

saw

then,

all

vaguely

for

the

flickering

of

the

lightning,

in

blinding

highlights

and

dense

black

shadows.

As

it

passed

it

set

up

an

exultant

deafening

howl

that

drowned

the

thunder—“Aloo!

Aloo!”—and

in

another

minute

it

was

with

its

companion,

half

a

mile

away,

stooping

over

something

in

the

field.

I

have

no

doubt

this

Thing

in

the

field

was

the

third

of

the

ten

cylinders

they

had

fired

at

us

from

Mars.

For

some

minutes

I

lay

there

in

the

rain

and

darkness

watching,

by

the

intermittent

light,

these

monstrous

beings

of

metal

moving

about

in

the

distance

over

the

hedge

tops.

A

thin

hail

was

now

beginning,

and

as

it

came

and

went

their

figures

grew

misty

and

then

flashed

into

clearness

again.

Now

and

then

came

a

gap

in

the

lightning,

and

the

night

swallowed

them

up.

I

was

soaked

with

hail

above

and

puddle

water

below.

It

was

some

time

before

my

blank

astonishment

would

let

me

struggle

up

the

bank

to

a

drier

position,

or

think

at

all

of

my

imminent

peril.

Not

far

from

me

was

a

little

one-roomed

squatter’s

hut

of

wood,

surrounded

by

a

patch

of

potato

garden.

I

struggled

to

my

feet

at

last,

and,

crouching

and

making

use

of

every

chance

of

cover,

I

made

a

run

for

this.

I

hammered

at

the

door,

but

I

could

not

make

the

people

hear

(if

there

were

any

people

inside),

and

after

a

time

I

desisted,

and,

availing

myself

of

a

ditch

for

the

greater

part

of

the

way,

succeeded

in

crawling,

unobserved

by

these

monstrous

machines,

into

the

pine

woods

towards

Maybury.

Under

cover

of

this

I

pushed

on,

wet

and

shivering

now,

towards

my

own

house.

I

walked

among

the

trees

trying

to

find

the

footpath.

It

was

very

dark

indeed

in

the

wood,

for

the

lightning

was

now

becoming

infrequent,

and

the

hail,

which

was

pouring

down

in

a

torrent,

fell

in

columns

through

the

gaps

in

the

heavy

foliage.

If

I

had

fully

realised

the

meaning

of

all

the

things

I

had

seen

I

should

have

immediately

worked

my

way

round

through

Byfleet

to

Street

Cobham,

and

so

gone

back

to

rejoin

my

wife

at

Leatherhead.

But

that

night

the

strangeness

of

things

about

me,

and

my

physical

wretchedness,

prevented

me,

for

I

was

bruised,

weary,

wet

to

the

skin,

deafened

and

blinded

by

the

storm.

I

had

a

vague

idea

of

going

on

to

my

own

house,

and

that

was

as

much

motive

as

I

had.

I

staggered

through

the

trees,

fell

into

a

ditch

and

bruised

my

knees

against

a

plank,

and

finally

splashed

out

into

the

lane

that

ran

down

from

the

College

Arms.

I

say

splashed,

for

the

storm

water

was

sweeping

the

sand

down

the

hill

in

a

muddy

torrent.

There

in

the

darkness

a

man

blundered

into

me

and

sent

me

reeling

back.

He

gave

a

cry

of

terror,

sprang

sideways,

and

rushed

on

before

I

could

gather

my

wits

sufficiently

to

speak

to

him.

So

heavy

was

the

stress

of

the

storm

just

at

this

place

that

I

had

the

hardest

task

to

win

my

way

up

the

hill.

I

went

close

up

to

the

fence

on

the

left

and

worked

my

way

along

its

palings.

Near

the

top

I

stumbled

upon

something

soft,

and,

by

a

flash

of

lightning,

saw

between

my

feet

a

heap

of

black

broadcloth

and

a

pair

of

boots.

Before

I

could

distinguish

clearly

how

the

man

lay,

the

flicker

of

light

had

passed.

I

stood

over

him

waiting

for

the

next

flash.

When

it

came,

I

saw

that

he

was

a

sturdy

man,

cheaply

but

not

shabbily

dressed;

his

head

was

bent

under

his

body,

and

he

lay

crumpled

up

close

to

the

fence,

as

though

he

had

been

flung

violently

against

it.

Overcoming

the

repugnance

natural

to

one

who

had

never

before

touched

a

dead

body,

I

stooped

and

turned

him

over

to

feel

for

his

heart.

He

was

quite

dead.

Apparently

his

neck

had

been

broken.

The

lightning

flashed

for

a

third

time,

and

his

face

leaped

upon

me.

I

sprang

to

my

feet.

It

was

the

landlord

of

the

Spotted

Dog,

whose

conveyance

I

had

taken.

I

stepped

over

him

gingerly

and

pushed

on

up

the

hill.

I

made

my

way

by

the

police

station

and

the

College

Arms

towards

my

own

house.

Nothing

was

burning

on

the

hillside,

though

from

the

common

there

still

came

a

red

glare

and

a

rolling

tumult

of

ruddy

smoke

beating

up

against

the

drenching

hail.

So

far

as

I

could

see

by

the

flashes,

the

houses

about

me

were

mostly

uninjured.

By

the

College

Arms

a

dark

heap

lay

in

the

road.

Down

the

road

towards

Maybury

Bridge

there

were

voices

and

the

sound

of

feet,

but

I

had

not

the

courage

to

shout

or

to

go

to

them.

I

let

myself

in

with

my

latchkey,

closed,

locked

and

bolted

the

door,

staggered

to

the

foot

of

the

staircase,

and

sat

down.

My

imagination

was

full

of

those

striding

metallic

monsters,

and

of

the

dead

body

smashed

against

the

fence.

I

crouched

at

the

foot

of

the

staircase

with

my

back

to

the

wall,

shivering

violently.

XI.

AT

THE

WINDOW.

I

have

already

said

that

my

storms

of

emotion

have

a

trick

of

exhausting

themselves.

After

a

time

I

discovered

that

I

was

cold

and

wet,

and

with

little

pools

of

water

about

me

on

the

stair

carpet.

I

got

up

almost

mechanically,

went

into

the

dining

room

and

drank

some

whisky,

and

then

I

was

moved

to

change

my

clothes.

After

I

had

done

that

I

went

upstairs

to

my

study,

but

why

I

did

so

I

do

not

know.

The

window

of

my

study

looks

over

the

trees

and

the

railway

towards

Horsell

Common.

In

the

hurry

of

our

departure

this

window

had

been

left

open.

The

passage

was

dark,

and,

by

contrast

with

the

picture

the

window

frame

enclosed,

the

side

of

the

room

seemed

impenetrably

dark.

I

stopped

short

in

the

doorway.

The

thunderstorm

had

passed.

The

towers

of

the

Oriental

College

and

the

pine

trees

about

it

had

gone,

and

very

far

away,

lit

by

a

vivid

red

glare,

the

common

about

the

sand-pits

was

visible.

Across

the

light

huge

black

shapes,

grotesque

and

strange,

moved

busily

to

and

fro.

It

seemed

indeed

as

if

the

whole

country

in

that

direction

was

on

fire—a

broad

hillside

set

with

minute

tongues

of

flame,

swaying

and

writhing

with

the

gusts

of

the

dying

storm,

and

throwing

a

red

reflection

upon

the

cloud

scud

above.

Every

now

and

then

a

haze

of

smoke

from

some

nearer

conflagration

drove

across

the

window

and

hid

the

Martian

shapes.

I

could

not

see

what

they

were

doing,

nor

the

clear

form

of

them,

nor

recognise

the

black

objects

they

were

busied

upon.

Neither

could

I

see

the

nearer

fire,

though

the

reflections

of

it

danced

on

the

wall

and

ceiling

of

the

study.

A

sharp,

resinous

tang

of

burning

was

in

the

air.

I

closed

the

door

noiselessly

and

crept

towards

the

window.

As

I

did

so,

the

view

opened

out

until,

on

the

one

hand,

it

reached

to

the

houses

about

Woking

station,

and

on

the

other

to

the

charred

and

blackened

pine

woods

of

Byfleet.

There

was

a

light

down

below

the

hill,

on

the

railway,

near

the

arch,

and

several

of

the

houses

along

the

Maybury

road

and

the

streets

near

the

station

were

glowing

ruins.

The

light

upon

the

railway

puzzled

me

at

first;

there

were

a

black

heap

and

a

vivid

glare,

and

to

the

right

of

that

a

row

of

yellow

oblongs.

Then

I

perceived

this

was

a

wrecked

train,

the

fore

part

smashed

and

on

fire,

the

hinder

carriages

still

upon

the

rails.

Between

these

three

main

centres

of

light—the

houses,

the

train,

and

the

burning

county

towards

Chobham—stretched

irregular

patches

of

dark

country,

broken

here

and

there

by

intervals

of

dimly

glowing

and

smoking

ground.

It

was

the

strangest

spectacle,

that

black

expanse

set

with

fire.

It

reminded

me,

more

than

anything

else,

of

the

Potteries

at

night.

At

first

I

could

distinguish

no

people

at

all,

though

I

peered

intently

for

them.

Later

I

saw

against

the

light

of

Woking

station

a

number

of

black

figures

hurrying

one

after

the

other

across

the

line.

And

this

was

the

little

world

in

which

I

had

been

living

securely

for

years,

this

fiery

chaos!

What

had

happened

in

the

last

seven

hours

I

still

did

not

know;

nor

did

I

know,

though

I

was

beginning

to

guess,

the

relation

between

these

mechanical

colossi

and

the

sluggish

lumps

I

had

seen

disgorged

from

the

cylinder.

With

a

queer

feeling

of

impersonal

interest

I

turned

my

desk

chair

to

the

window,

sat

down,

and

stared

at

the

blackened

country,

and

particularly

at

the

three

gigantic

black

things

that

were

going

to

and

fro

in

the

glare

about

the

sand-pits.

They

seemed

amazingly

busy.

I

began

to

ask

myself

what

they

could

be.

Were

they

intelligent

mechanisms?

Such

a

thing

I

felt

was

impossible.

Or

did

a

Martian

sit

within

each,

ruling,

directing,

using,

much

as

a

man’s

brain

sits

and

rules

in

his

body?

I

began

to

compare

the

things

to

human

machines,

to

ask

myself

for

the

first

time

in

my

life

how

an

ironclad

or

a

steam

engine

would

seem

to

an

intelligent

lower

animal.

The

storm

had

left

the

sky

clear,

and

over

the

smoke

of

the

burning

land

the

little

fading

pinpoint

of

Mars

was

dropping

into

the

west,

when

a

soldier

came

into

my

garden.

I

heard

a

slight

scraping

at

the

fence,

and

rousing

myself

from

the

lethargy

that

had

fallen

upon

me,

I

looked

down

and

saw

him

dimly,

clambering

over

the

palings.

At

the

sight

of

another

human

being

my

torpor

passed,

and

I

leaned

out

of

the

window

eagerly.

“Hist!”

said

I,

in

a

whisper.

He

stopped

astride

of

the

fence

in

doubt.

Then

he

came

over

and

across

the

lawn

to

the

corner

of

the

house.

He

bent

down

and

stepped

softly.

“Who’s

there?”

he

said,

also

whispering,

standing

under

the

window

and

peering

up.

“Where

are

you

going?”

I

asked.

“God

knows.”

“Are

you

trying

to

hide?”

“That’s

it.”

“Come

into

the

house,”

I

said.

I

went

down,

unfastened

the

door,

and

let

him

in,

and

locked

the

door

again.

I

could

not

see

his

face.

He

was

hatless,

and

his

coat

was

unbuttoned.

“My

God!”

he

said,

as

I

drew

him

in.

“What

has

happened?”

I

asked.

“What

hasn’t?”

In

the

obscurity

I

could

see

he

made

a

gesture

of

despair.

“They

wiped

us

out—simply

wiped

us

out,”

he

repeated

again

and

again.

He

followed

me,

almost

mechanically,

into

the

dining

room.

“Take

some

whisky,”

I

said,

pouring

out

a

stiff

dose.

He

drank

it.

Then

abruptly

he

sat

down

before

the

table,

put

his

head

on

his

arms,

and

began

to

sob

and

weep

like

a

little

boy,

in

a

perfect

passion

of

emotion,

while

I,

with

a

curious

forgetfulness

of

my

own

recent

despair,

stood

beside

him,

wondering.

It

was

a

long

time

before

he

could

steady

his

nerves

to

answer

my

questions,

and

then

he

answered

perplexingly

and

brokenly.

He

was

a

driver

in

the

artillery,

and

had

only

come

into

action

about

seven.

At

that

time

firing

was

going

on

across

the

common,

and

it

was

said

the

first

party

of

Martians

were

crawling

slowly

towards

their

second

cylinder

under

cover

of

a

metal

shield.

Later

this

shield

staggered

up

on

tripod

legs

and

became

the

first

of

the

fighting-machines

I

had

seen.

The

gun

he

drove

had

been

unlimbered

near

Horsell,

in

order

to

command

the

sand-pits,

and

its

arrival

it

was

that

had

precipitated

the

action.

As

the

limber

gunners

went

to

the

rear,

his

horse

trod

in

a

rabbit

hole

and

came

down,

throwing

him

into

a

depression

of

the

ground.

At

the

same

moment

the

gun

exploded

behind

him,

the

ammunition

blew

up,

there

was

fire

all

about

him,

and

he

found

himself

lying

under

a

heap

of

charred

dead

men

and

dead

horses.

“I

lay

still,”

he

said,

“scared

out

of

my

wits,

with

the

fore

quarter

of

a

horse

atop

of

me.

We’d

been

wiped

out.

And

the

smell—good

God!

Like

burnt

meat!

I

was

hurt

across

the

back

by

the

fall

of

the

horse,

and

there

I

had

to

lie

until

I

felt

better.

Just

like

parade

it

had

been

a

minute

before—then

stumble,

bang,

swish!”

“Wiped

out!”

he

said.

He

had

hid

under

the

dead

horse

for

a

long

time,

peeping

out

furtively

across

the

common.

The

Cardigan

men

had

tried

a

rush,

in

skirmishing

order,

at

the

pit,

simply

to

be

swept

out

of

existence.

Then

the

monster

had

risen

to

its

feet

and

had

begun

to

walk

leisurely

to

and

fro

across

the

common

among

the

few

fugitives,

with

its

headlike

hood

turning

about

exactly

like

the

head

of

a

cowled

human

being.

A

kind

of

arm

carried

a

complicated

metallic

case,

about

which

green

flashes

scintillated,

and

out

of

the

funnel

of

this

there

smoked

the

Heat-Ray.

In

a

few

minutes

there

was,

so

far

as

the

soldier

could

see,

not

a

living

thing

left

upon

the

common,

and

every

bush

and

tree

upon

it

that

was

not

already

a

blackened

skeleton

was

burning.

The

hussars

had

been

on

the

road

beyond

the

curvature

of

the

ground,

and

he

saw

nothing

of

them.

He

heard

the

Maxims

rattle

for

a

time

and

then

become

still.

The

giant

saved

Woking

station

and

its

cluster

of

houses

until

the

last;

then

in

a

moment

the

Heat-Ray

was

brought

to

bear,

and

the

town

became

a

heap

of

fiery

ruins.

Then

the

Thing

shut

off

the

Heat-Ray,

and

turning

its

back

upon

the

artilleryman,

began

to

waddle

away

towards

the

smouldering

pine

woods

that

sheltered

the

second

cylinder.

As

it

did

so

a

second

glittering

Titan

built

itself

up

out

of

the

pit.

The

second

monster

followed

the

first,

and

at

that

the

artilleryman

began

to

crawl

very

cautiously

across

the

hot

heather

ash

towards

Horsell.

He

managed

to

get

alive

into

the

ditch

by

the

side

of

the

road,

and

so

escaped

to

Woking.

There

his

story

became

ejaculatory.

The

place

was

impassable.

It

seems

there

were

a

few

people

alive

there,

frantic

for

the

most

part

and

many

burned

and

scalded.

He

was

turned

aside

by

the

fire,

and

hid

among

some

almost

scorching

heaps

of

broken

wall

as

one

of

the

Martian

giants

returned.

He

saw

this

one

pursue

a

man,

catch

him

up

in

one

of

its

steely

tentacles,

and

knock

his

head

against

the

trunk

of

a

pine

tree.

At

last,

after

nightfall,

the

artilleryman

made

a

rush

for

it

and

got

over

the

railway

embankment.

Since

then

he

had

been

skulking

along

towards

Maybury,

in

the

hope

of

getting

out

of

danger

Londonward.

People

were

hiding

in

trenches

and

cellars,

and

many

of

the

survivors

had

made

off

towards

Woking

village

and

Send.

He

had

been

consumed

with

thirst

until

he

found

one

of

the

water

mains

near

the

railway

arch

smashed,

and

the

water

bubbling

out

like

a

spring

upon

the

road.

That

was

the

story

I

got

from

him,

bit

by

bit.

He

grew

calmer

telling

me

and

trying

to

make

me

see

the

things

he

had

seen.

He

had

eaten

no

food

since

midday,

he

told

me

early

in

his

narrative,

and

I

found

some

mutton

and

bread

in

the

pantry

and

brought

it

into

the

room.

We

lit

no

lamp

for

fear

of

attracting

the

Martians,

and

ever

and

again

our

hands

would

touch

upon

bread

or

meat.

As

he

talked,

things

about

us

came

darkly

out

of

the

darkness,

and

the

trampled

bushes

and

broken

rose

trees

outside

the

window

grew

distinct.

It

would

seem

that

a

number

of

men

or

animals

had

rushed

across

the

lawn.

I

began

to

see

his

face,

blackened

and

haggard,

as

no

doubt

mine

was

also.

When

we

had

finished

eating

we

went

softly

upstairs

to

my

study,

and

I

looked

again

out

of

the

open

window.

In

one

night

the

valley

had

become

a

valley

of

ashes.

The

fires

had

dwindled

now.

Where

flames

had

been

there

were

now

streamers

of

smoke;

but

the

countless

ruins

of

shattered

and

gutted

houses

and

blasted

and

blackened

trees

that

the

night

had

hidden

stood

out

now

gaunt

and

terrible

in

the

pitiless

light

of

dawn.

Yet

here

and

there

some

object

had

had

the

luck

to

escape—a

white

railway

signal

here,

the

end

of

a

greenhouse

there,

white

and

fresh

amid

the

wreckage.

Never

before

in

the

history

of

warfare

had

destruction

been

so

indiscriminate

and

so

universal.

And

shining

with

the

growing

light

of

the

east,

three

of

the

metallic

giants

stood

about

the

pit,

their

cowls

rotating

as

though

they

were

surveying

the

desolation

they

had

made.

It

seemed

to

me

that

the

pit

had

been

enlarged,

and

ever

and

again

puffs

of

vivid

green

vapour

streamed

up

and

out

of

it

towards

the

brightening

dawn—streamed

up,

whirled,

broke,

and

vanished.

Beyond

were

the

pillars

of

fire

about

Chobham.

They

became

pillars

of

bloodshot

smoke

at

the

first

touch

of

day.

XII.

WHAT

I

SAW

OF

THE

DESTRUCTION

OF

WEYBRIDGE

AND

SHEPPERTON.

As

the

dawn

grew

brighter

we

withdrew

from

the

window

from

which

we

had

watched

the

Martians,

and

went

very

quietly

downstairs.

The

artilleryman

agreed

with

me

that

the

house

was

no

place

to

stay

in.

He

proposed,

he

said,

to

make

his

way

Londonward,

and

thence

rejoin

his

battery—No.

12,

of

the

Horse

Artillery.

My

plan

was

to

return

at

once

to

Leatherhead;

and

so

greatly

had

the

strength

of

the

Martians

impressed

me

that

I

had

determined

to

take

my

wife

to

Newhaven,

and

go

with

her

out

of

the

country

forthwith.

For

I

already

perceived

clearly

that

the

country

about

London

must

inevitably

be

the

scene

of

a

disastrous

struggle

before

such

creatures

as

these

could

be

destroyed.

Between

us

and

Leatherhead,

however,

lay

the

third

cylinder,

with

its

guarding

giants.

Had

I

been

alone,

I

think

I

should

have

taken

my

chance

and

struck

across

country.

But

the

artilleryman

dissuaded

me:

“It’s

no

kindness

to

the

right

sort

of

wife,”

he

said,

“to

make

her

a

widow”;

and

in

the

end

I

agreed

to

go

with

him,

under

cover

of

the

woods,

northward

as

far

as

Street

Cobham

before

I

parted

with

him.

Thence

I

would

make

a

big

detour

by

Epsom

to

reach

Leatherhead.

I

should

have

started

at

once,

but

my

companion

had

been

in

active

service

and

he

knew

better

than

that.

He

made

me

ransack

the

house

for

a

flask,

which

he

filled

with

whisky;

and

we

lined

every

available

pocket

with

packets

of

biscuits

and

slices

of

meat.

Then

we

crept

out

of

the

house,

and

ran

as

quickly

as

we

could

down

the

ill-made

road

by

which

I

had

come

overnight.

The

houses

seemed

deserted.

In

the

road

lay

a

group

of

three

charred

bodies

close

together,

struck

dead

by

the

Heat-Ray;

and

here

and

there

were

things

that

people

had

dropped—a

clock,

a

slipper,

a

silver

spoon,

and

the

like

poor

valuables.

At

the

corner

turning

up

towards

the

post

office

a

little

cart,

filled

with

boxes

and

furniture,

and

horseless,

heeled

over

on

a

broken

wheel.

A

cash

box

had

been

hastily

smashed

open

and

thrown

under

the

debris.

Except

the

lodge

at

the

Orphanage,

which

was

still

on

fire,

none

of

the

houses

had

suffered

very

greatly

here.

The

Heat-Ray

had

shaved

the

chimney

tops

and

passed.

Yet,

save

ourselves,

there

did

not

seem

to

be

a

living

soul

on

Maybury

Hill.

The

majority

of

the

inhabitants

had

escaped,

I

suppose,

by

way

of

the

Old

Woking

road—the

road

I

had

taken

when

I

drove

to

Leatherhead—or

they

had

hidden.

We

went

down

the

lane,

by

the

body

of

the

man

in

black,

sodden

now

from

the

overnight

hail,

and

broke

into

the

woods

at

the

foot

of

the

hill.

We

pushed

through

these

towards

the

railway

without

meeting

a

soul.

The

woods

across

the

line

were

but

the

scarred

and

blackened

ruins

of

woods;

for

the

most

part

the

trees

had

fallen,

but

a

certain

proportion

still

stood,

dismal

grey

stems,

with

dark

brown

foliage

instead

of

green.

On

our

side

the

fire

had

done

no

more

than

scorch

the

nearer

trees;

it

had

failed

to

secure

its

footing.

In

one

place

the

woodmen

had

been

at

work

on

Saturday;

trees,

felled

and

freshly

trimmed,

lay

in

a

clearing,

with

heaps

of

sawdust

by

the

sawing-machine

and

its

engine.

Hard

by

was

a

temporary

hut,

deserted.

There

was

not

a

breath

of

wind

this

morning,

and

everything

was

strangely

still.

Even

the

birds

were

hushed,

and

as

we

hurried

along

I

and

the

artilleryman

talked

in

whispers

and

looked

now

and

again

over

our

shoulders.

Once

or

twice

we

stopped

to

listen.

After

a

time

we

drew

near

the

road,

and

as

we

did

so

we

heard

the

clatter

of

hoofs

and

saw

through

the

tree

stems

three

cavalry

soldiers

riding

slowly

towards

Woking.

We

hailed

them,

and

they

halted

while

we

hurried

towards

them.

It

was

a

lieutenant

and

a

couple

of

privates

of

the

8th

Hussars,

with

a

stand

like

a

theodolite,

which

the

artilleryman

told

me

was

a

heliograph.

“You

are

the

first

men

I’ve

seen

coming

this

way

this

morning,”

said

the

lieutenant.

“What’s

brewing?”

His

voice

and

face

were

eager.

The

men

behind

him

stared

curiously.

The

artilleryman

jumped

down

the

bank

into

the

road

and

saluted.

“Gun

destroyed

last

night,

sir.

Have

been

hiding.

Trying

to

rejoin

battery,

sir.

You’ll

come

in

sight

of

the

Martians,

I

expect,

about

half

a

mile

along

this

road.”

“What

the

dickens

are

they

like?”

asked

the

lieutenant.

“Giants

in

armour,

sir.

Hundred

feet

high.

Three

legs

and

a

body

like

’luminium,

with

a

mighty

great

head

in

a

hood,

sir.”

“Get

out!”

said

the

lieutenant.

“What

confounded

nonsense!”

“You’ll

see,

sir.

They

carry

a

kind

of

box,

sir,

that

shoots

fire

and

strikes

you

dead.”

“What

d’ye

mean—a

gun?”

“No,

sir,”

and

the

artilleryman

began

a

vivid

account

of

the

Heat-Ray.

Halfway

through,

the

lieutenant

interrupted

him

and

looked

up

at

me.

I

was

still

standing

on

the

bank

by

the

side

of

the

road.

“It’s

perfectly

true,”

I

said.

“Well,”

said

the

lieutenant,

“I

suppose

it’s

my

business

to

see

it

too.

Look

here”—to

the

artilleryman—“we’re

detailed

here

clearing

people

out

of

their

houses.

You’d

better

go

along

and

report

yourself

to

Brigadier-General

Marvin,

and

tell

him

all

you

know.

He’s

at

Weybridge.

Know

the

way?”

“I

do,”

I

said;

and

he

turned

his

horse

southward

again.

“Half

a

mile,

you

say?”

said

he.

“At

most,”

I

answered,

and

pointed

over

the

treetops

southward.

He

thanked

me

and

rode

on,

and

we

saw

them

no

more.

Farther

along

we

came

upon

a

group

of

three

women

and

two

children

in

the

road,

busy

clearing

out

a

labourer’s

cottage.

They

had

got

hold

of

a

little

hand

truck,

and

were

piling

it

up

with

unclean-looking

bundles

and

shabby

furniture.

They

were

all

too

assiduously

engaged

to

talk

to

us

as

we

passed.

By

Byfleet

station

we

emerged

from

the

pine

trees,

and

found

the

country

calm

and

peaceful

under

the

morning

sunlight.

We

were

far

beyond

the

range

of

the

Heat-Ray

there,

and

had

it

not

been

for

the

silent

desertion

of

some

of

the

houses,

the

stirring

movement

of

packing

in

others,

and

the

knot

of

soldiers

standing

on

the

bridge

over

the

railway

and

staring

down

the

line

towards

Woking,

the

day

would

have

seemed

very

like

any

other

Sunday.

Several

farm

waggons

and

carts

were

moving

creakily

along

the

road

to

Addlestone,

and

suddenly

through

the

gate

of

a

field

we

saw,

across

a

stretch

of

flat

meadow,

six

twelve-pounders

standing

neatly

at

equal

distances

pointing

towards

Woking.

The

gunners

stood

by

the

guns

waiting,

and

the

ammunition

waggons

were

at

a

business-like

distance.

The

men

stood

almost

as

if

under

inspection.

“That’s

good!”

said

I.

“They

will

get

one

fair

shot,

at

any

rate.”

The

artilleryman

hesitated

at

the

gate.

“I

shall

go

on,”

he

said.

Farther

on

towards

Weybridge,

just

over

the

bridge,

there

were

a

number

of

men

in

white

fatigue

jackets

throwing

up

a

long

rampart,

and

more

guns

behind.

“It’s

bows

and

arrows

against

the

lightning,

anyhow,”

said

the

artilleryman.

“They

’aven’t

seen

that

fire-beam

yet.”

The

officers

who

were

not

actively

engaged

stood

and

stared

over

the

treetops

southwestward,

and

the

men

digging

would

stop

every

now

and

again

to

stare

in

the

same

direction.

Byfleet

was

in

a

tumult;

people

packing,

and

a

score

of

hussars,

some

of

them

dismounted,

some

on

horseback,

were

hunting

them

about.

Three

or

four

black

government

waggons,

with

crosses

in

white

circles,

and

an

old

omnibus,

among

other

vehicles,

were

being

loaded

in

the

village

street.

There

were

scores

of

people,

most

of

them

sufficiently

sabbatical

to

have

assumed

their

best

clothes.

The

soldiers

were

having

the

greatest

difficulty

in

making

them

realise

the

gravity

of

their

position.

We

saw

one

shrivelled

old

fellow

with

a

huge

box

and

a

score

or

more

of

flower

pots

containing

orchids,

angrily

expostulating

with

the

corporal

who

would

leave

them

behind.

I

stopped

and

gripped

his

arm.

“Do

you

know

what’s

over

there?”

I

said,

pointing

at

the

pine

tops

that

hid

the

Martians.

“Eh?”

said

he,

turning.

“I

was

explainin’

these

is

vallyble.”

“Death!”

I

shouted.

“Death

is

coming!

Death!”

and

leaving

him

to

digest

that

if

he

could,

I

hurried

on

after

the

artillery-man.

At

the

corner

I

looked

back.

The

soldier

had

left

him,

and

he

was

still

standing

by

his

box,

with

the

pots

of

orchids

on

the

lid

of

it,

and

staring

vaguely

over

the

trees.

No

one

in

Weybridge

could

tell

us

where

the

headquarters

were

established;

the

whole

place

was

in

such

confusion

as

I

had

never

seen

in

any

town

before.

Carts,

carriages

everywhere,

the

most

astonishing

miscellany

of

conveyances

and

horseflesh.

The

respectable

inhabitants

of

the

place,

men

in

golf

and

boating

costumes,

wives

prettily

dressed,

were

packing,

river-side

loafers

energetically

helping,

children

excited,

and,

for

the

most

part,

highly

delighted

at

this

astonishing

variation

of

their

Sunday

experiences.

In

the

midst

of

it

all

the

worthy

vicar

was

very

pluckily

holding

an

early

celebration,

and

his

bell

was

jangling

out

above

the

excitement.

I

and

the

artilleryman,

seated

on

the

step

of

the

drinking

fountain,

made

a

very

passable

meal

upon

what

we

had

brought

with

us.

Patrols

of

soldiers—here

no

longer

hussars,

but

grenadiers

in

white—were

warning

people

to

move

now

or

to

take

refuge

in

their

cellars

as

soon

as

the

firing

began.

We

saw

as

we

crossed

the

railway

bridge

that

a

growing

crowd

of

people

had

assembled

in

and

about

the

railway

station,

and

the

swarming

platform

was

piled

with

boxes

and

packages.

The

ordinary

traffic

had

been

stopped,

I

believe,

in

order

to

allow

of

the

passage

of

troops

and

guns

to

Chertsey,

and

I

have

heard

since

that

a

savage

struggle

occurred

for

places

in

the

special

trains

that

were

put

on

at

a

later

hour.

We

remained

at

Weybridge

until

midday,

and

at

that

hour

we

found

ourselves

at

the

place

near

Shepperton

Lock

where

the

Wey

and

Thames

join.

Part

of

the

time

we

spent

helping

two

old

women

to

pack

a

little

cart.

The

Wey

has

a

treble

mouth,

and

at

this

point

boats

are

to

be

hired,

and

there

was

a

ferry

across

the

river.

On

the

Shepperton

side

was

an

inn

with

a

lawn,

and

beyond

that

the

tower

of

Shepperton

Church—it

has

been

replaced

by

a

spire—rose

above

the

trees.

Here

we

found

an

excited

and

noisy

crowd

of

fugitives.

As

yet

the

flight

had

not

grown

to

a

panic,

but

there

were

already

far

more

people

than

all

the

boats

going

to

and

fro

could

enable

to

cross.

People

came

panting

along

under

heavy

burdens;

one

husband

and

wife

were

even

carrying

a

small

outhouse

door

between

them,

with

some

of

their

household

goods

piled

thereon.

One

man

told

us

he

meant

to

try

to

get

away

from

Shepperton

station.

There

was

a

lot

of

shouting,

and

one

man

was

even

jesting.

The

idea

people

seemed

to

have

here

was

that

the

Martians

were

simply

formidable

human

beings,

who

might

attack

and

sack

the

town,

to

be

certainly

destroyed

in

the

end.

Every

now

and

then

people

would

glance

nervously

across

the

Wey,

at

the

meadows

towards

Chertsey,

but

everything

over

there

was

still.

Across

the

Thames,

except

just

where

the

boats

landed,

everything

was

quiet,

in

vivid

contrast

with

the

Surrey

side.

The

people

who

landed

there

from

the

boats

went

tramping

off

down

the

lane.

The

big

ferryboat

had

just

made

a

journey.

Three

or

four

soldiers

stood

on

the

lawn

of

the

inn,

staring

and

jesting

at

the

fugitives,

without

offering

to

help.

The

inn

was

closed,

as

it

was

now

within

prohibited

hours.

“What’s

that?”

cried

a

boatman,

and

“Shut

up,

you

fool!”

said

a

man

near

me

to

a

yelping

dog.

Then

the

sound

came

again,

this

time

from

the

direction

of

Chertsey,

a

muffled

thud—the

sound

of

a

gun.

The

fighting

was

beginning.

Almost

immediately

unseen

batteries

across

the

river

to

our

right,

unseen

because

of

the

trees,

took

up

the

chorus,

firing

heavily

one

after

the

other.

A

woman

screamed.

Everyone

stood

arrested

by

the

sudden

stir

of

battle,

near

us

and

yet

invisible

to

us.

Nothing

was

to

be

seen

save

flat

meadows,

cows

feeding

unconcernedly

for

the

most

part,

and

silvery

pollard

willows

motionless

in

the

warm

sunlight.

“The

sojers’ll

stop

’em,”

said

a

woman

beside

me,

doubtfully.

A

haziness

rose

over

the

treetops.

Then

suddenly

we

saw

a

rush

of

smoke

far

away

up

the

river,

a

puff

of

smoke

that

jerked

up

into

the

air

and

hung;

and

forthwith

the

ground

heaved

under

foot

and

a

heavy

explosion

shook

the

air,

smashing

two

or

three

windows

in

the

houses

near,

and

leaving

us

astonished.

“Here

they

are!”

shouted

a

man

in

a

blue

jersey.

“Yonder!

D’yer

see

them?

Yonder!”

Quickly,

one

after

the

other,

one,

two,

three,

four

of

the

armoured

Martians

appeared,

far

away

over

the

little

trees,

across

the

flat

meadows

that

stretched

towards

Chertsey,

and

striding

hurriedly

towards

the

river.

Little

cowled

figures

they

seemed

at

first,

going

with

a

rolling

motion

and

as

fast

as

flying

birds.

Then,

advancing

obliquely

towards

us,

came

a

fifth.

Their

armoured

bodies

glittered

in

the

sun

as

they

swept

swiftly

forward

upon

the

guns,

growing

rapidly

larger

as

they

drew

nearer.

One

on

the

extreme

left,

the

remotest

that

is,

flourished

a

huge

case

high

in

the

air,

and

the

ghostly,

terrible

Heat-Ray

I

had

already

seen

on

Friday

night

smote

towards

Chertsey,

and

struck

the

town.

At

sight

of

these

strange,

swift,

and

terrible

creatures

the

crowd

near

the

water’s

edge

seemed

to

me

to

be

for

a

moment

horror-struck.

There

was

no

screaming

or

shouting,

but

a

silence.

Then

a

hoarse

murmur

and

a

movement

of

feet—a

splashing

from

the

water.

A

man,

too

frightened

to

drop

the

portmanteau

he

carried

on

his

shoulder,

swung

round

and

sent

me

staggering

with

a

blow

from

the

corner

of

his

burden.

A

woman

thrust

at

me

with

her

hand

and

rushed

past

me.

I

turned

with

the

rush

of

the

people,

but

I

was

not

too

terrified

for

thought.

The

terrible

Heat-Ray

was

in

my

mind.

To

get

under

water!

That

was

it!

“Get

under

water!”

I

shouted,

unheeded.

I

faced

about

again,

and

rushed

towards

the

approaching

Martian,

rushed

right

down

the

gravelly

beach

and

headlong

into

the

water.

Others

did

the

same.

A

boatload

of

people

putting

back

came

leaping

out

as

I

rushed

past.

The

stones

under

my

feet

were

muddy

and

slippery,

and

the

river

was

so

low

that

I

ran

perhaps

twenty

feet

scarcely

waist-deep.

Then,

as

the

Martian

towered

overhead

scarcely

a

couple

of

hundred

yards

away,

I

flung

myself

forward

under

the

surface.

The

splashes

of

the

people

in

the

boats

leaping

into

the

river

sounded

like

thunderclaps

in

my

ears.

People

were

landing

hastily

on

both

sides

of

the

river.

But

the

Martian

machine

took

no

more

notice

for

the

moment

of

the

people

running

this

way

and

that

than

a

man

would

of

the

confusion

of

ants

in

a

nest

against

which

his

foot

has

kicked.

When,

half

suffocated,

I

raised

my

head

above

water,

the

Martian’s

hood

pointed

at

the

batteries

that

were

still

firing

across

the

river,

and

as

it

advanced

it

swung

loose

what

must

have

been

the

generator

of

the

Heat-Ray.

In

another

moment

it

was

on

the

bank,

and

in

a

stride

wading

halfway

across.

The

knees

of

its

foremost

legs

bent

at

the

farther

bank,

and

in

another

moment

it

had

raised

itself

to

its

full

height

again,

close

to

the

village

of

Shepperton.

Forthwith

the

six

guns

which,

unknown

to

anyone

on

the

right

bank,

had

been

hidden

behind

the

outskirts

of

that

village,

fired

simultaneously.

The

sudden

near

concussion,

the

last

close

upon

the

first,

made

my

heart

jump.

The

monster

was

already

raising

the

case

generating

the

Heat-Ray

as

the

first

shell

burst

six

yards

above

the

hood.

I

gave

a

cry

of

astonishment.

I

saw

and

thought

nothing

of

the

other

four

Martian

monsters;

my

attention

was

riveted

upon

the

nearer

incident.

Simultaneously

two

other

shells

burst

in

the

air

near

the

body

as

the

hood

twisted

round

in

time

to

receive,

but

not

in

time

to

dodge,

the

fourth

shell.

The

shell

burst

clean

in

the

face

of

the

Thing.

The

hood

bulged,

flashed,

was

whirled

off

in

a

dozen

tattered

fragments

of

red

flesh

and

glittering

metal.

“Hit!”

shouted

I,

with

something

between

a

scream

and

a

cheer.

I

heard

answering

shouts

from

the

people

in

the

water

about

me.

I

could

have

leaped

out

of

the

water

with

that

momentary

exultation.

The

decapitated

colossus

reeled

like

a

drunken

giant;

but

it

did

not

fall

over.

It

recovered

its

balance

by

a

miracle,

and,

no

longer

heeding

its

steps

and

with

the

camera

that

fired

the

Heat-Ray

now

rigidly

upheld,

it

reeled

swiftly

upon

Shepperton.

The

living

intelligence,

the

Martian

within

the

hood,

was

slain

and

splashed

to

the

four

winds

of

heaven,

and

the

Thing

was

now

but

a

mere

intricate

device

of

metal

whirling

to

destruction.

It

drove

along

in

a

straight

line,

incapable

of

guidance.

It

struck

the

tower

of

Shepperton

Church,

smashing

it

down

as

the

impact

of

a

battering

ram

might

have

done,

swerved

aside,

blundered

on

and

collapsed

with

tremendous

force

into

the

river

out

of

my

sight.

A

violent

explosion

shook

the

air,

and

a

spout

of

water,

steam,

mud,

and

shattered

metal

shot

far

up

into

the

sky.

As

the

camera

of

the

Heat-Ray

hit

the

water,

the

latter

had

immediately

flashed

into

steam.

In

another

moment

a

huge

wave,

like

a

muddy

tidal

bore

but

almost

scaldingly

hot,

came

sweeping

round

the

bend

upstream.

I

saw

people

struggling

shorewards,

and

heard

their

screaming

and

shouting

faintly

above

the

seething

and

roar

of

the

Martian’s

collapse.

For

a

moment

I

heeded

nothing

of

the

heat,

forgot

the

patent

need

of

self-preservation.

I

splashed

through

the

tumultuous

water,

pushing

aside

a

man

in

black

to

do

so,

until

I

could

see

round

the

bend.

Half

a

dozen

deserted

boats

pitched

aimlessly

upon

the

confusion

of

the

waves.

The

fallen

Martian

came

into

sight

downstream,

lying

across

the

river,

and

for

the

most

part

submerged.

Thick

clouds

of

steam

were

pouring

off

the

wreckage,

and

through

the

tumultuously

whirling

wisps

I

could

see,

intermittently

and

vaguely,

the

gigantic

limbs

churning

the

water

and

flinging

a

splash

and

spray

of

mud

and

froth

into

the

air.

The

tentacles

swayed

and

struck

like

living

arms,

and,

save

for

the

helpless

purposelessness

of

these

movements,

it

was

as

if

some

wounded

thing

were

struggling

for

its

life

amid

the

waves.

Enormous

quantities

of

a

ruddy-brown

fluid

were

spurting

up

in

noisy

jets

out

of

the

machine.

My

attention

was

diverted

from

this

death

flurry

by

a

furious

yelling,

like

that

of

the

thing

called

a

siren

in

our

manufacturing

towns.

A

man,

knee-deep

near

the

towing

path,

shouted

inaudibly

to

me

and

pointed.

Looking

back,

I

saw

the

other

Martians

advancing

with

gigantic

strides

down

the

riverbank

from

the

direction

of

Chertsey.

The

Shepperton

guns

spoke

this

time

unavailingly.

At

that

I

ducked

at

once

under

water,

and,

holding

my

breath

until

movement

was

an

agony,

blundered

painfully

ahead

under

the

surface

as

long

as

I

could.

The

water

was

in

a

tumult

about

me,

and

rapidly

growing

hotter.

When

for

a

moment

I

raised

my

head

to

take

breath

and

throw

the

hair

and

water

from

my

eyes,

the

steam

was

rising

in

a

whirling

white

fog

that

at

first

hid

the

Martians

altogether.

The

noise

was

deafening.

Then

I

saw

them

dimly,

colossal

figures

of

grey,

magnified

by

the

mist.

They

had

passed

by

me,

and

two

were

stooping

over

the

frothing,

tumultuous

ruins

of

their

comrade.

The

third

and

fourth

stood

beside

him

in

the

water,

one

perhaps

two

hundred

yards

from

me,

the

other

towards

Laleham.

The

generators

of

the

Heat-Rays

waved

high,

and

the

hissing

beams

smote

down

this

way

and

that.

The

air

was

full

of

sound,

a

deafening

and

confusing

conflict

of

noises—the

clangorous

din

of

the

Martians,

the

crash

of

falling

houses,

the

thud

of

trees,

fences,

sheds

flashing

into

flame,

and

the

crackling

and

roaring

of

fire.

Dense

black

smoke

was

leaping

up

to

mingle

with

the

steam

from

the

river,

and

as

the

Heat-Ray

went

to

and

fro

over

Weybridge

its

impact

was

marked

by

flashes

of

incandescent

white,

that

gave

place

at

once

to

a

smoky

dance

of

lurid

flames.

The

nearer

houses

still

stood

intact,

awaiting

their

fate,

shadowy,

faint

and

pallid

in

the

steam,

with

the

fire

behind

them

going

to

and

fro.

For

a

moment

perhaps

I

stood

there,

breast-high

in

the

almost

boiling

water,

dumbfounded

at

my

position,

hopeless

of

escape.

Through

the

reek

I

could

see

the

people

who

had

been

with

me

in

the

river

scrambling

out

of

the

water

through

the

reeds,

like

little

frogs

hurrying

through

grass

from

the

advance

of

a

man,

or

running

to

and

fro

in

utter

dismay

on

the

towing

path.

Then

suddenly

the

white

flashes

of

the

Heat-Ray

came

leaping

towards

me.

The

houses

caved

in

as

they

dissolved

at

its

touch,

and

darted

out

flames;

the

trees

changed

to

fire

with

a

roar.

The

Ray

flickered

up

and

down

the

towing

path,

licking

off

the

people

who

ran

this

way

and

that,

and

came

down

to

the

water’s

edge

not

fifty

yards

from

where

I

stood.

It

swept

across

the

river

to

Shepperton,

and

the

water

in

its

track

rose

in

a

boiling

weal

crested

with

steam.

I

turned

shoreward.

In

another

moment

the

huge

wave,

well-nigh

at

the

boiling-point

had

rushed

upon

me.

I

screamed

aloud,

and

scalded,

half

blinded,

agonised,

I

staggered

through

the

leaping,

hissing

water

towards

the

shore.

Had

my

foot

stumbled,

it

would

have

been

the

end.

I

fell

helplessly,

in

full

sight

of

the

Martians,

upon

the

broad,

bare

gravelly

spit

that

runs

down

to

mark

the

angle

of

the

Wey

and

Thames.

I

expected

nothing

but

death.

I

have

a

dim

memory

of

the

foot

of

a

Martian

coming

down

within

a

score

of

yards

of

my

head,

driving

straight

into

the

loose

gravel,

whirling

it

this

way

and

that

and

lifting

again;

of

a

long

suspense,

and

then

of

the

four

carrying

the

debris

of

their

comrade

between

them,

now

clear

and

then

presently

faint

through

a

veil

of

smoke,

receding

interminably,

as

it

seemed

to

me,

across

a

vast

space

of

river

and

meadow.

And

then,

very

slowly,

I

realised

that

by

a

miracle

I

had

escaped.

XIII.

HOW

I

FELL

IN

WITH

THE

CURATE.

After

getting

this

sudden

lesson

in

the

power

of

terrestrial

weapons,

the

Martians

retreated

to

their

original

position

upon

Horsell

Common;

and

in

their

haste,

and

encumbered

with

the

debris

of

their

smashed

companion,

they

no

doubt

overlooked

many

such

a

stray

and

negligible

victim

as

myself.

Had

they

left

their

comrade

and

pushed

on

forthwith,

there

was

nothing

at

that

time

between

them

and

London

but

batteries

of

twelve-pounder

guns,

and

they

would

certainly

have

reached

the

capital

in

advance

of

the

tidings

of

their

approach;

as

sudden,

dreadful,

and

destructive

their

advent

would

have

been

as

the

earthquake

that

destroyed

Lisbon

a

century

ago.

But

they

were

in

no

hurry.

Cylinder

followed

cylinder

on

its

interplanetary

flight;

every

twenty-four

hours

brought

them

reinforcement.

And

meanwhile

the

military

and

naval

authorities,

now

fully

alive

to

the

tremendous

power

of

their

antagonists,

worked

with

furious

energy.

Every

minute

a

fresh

gun

came

into

position

until,

before

twilight,

every

copse,

every

row

of

suburban

villas

on

the

hilly

slopes

about

Kingston

and

Richmond,

masked

an

expectant

black

muzzle.

And

through

the

charred

and

desolated

area—perhaps

twenty

square

miles

altogether—that

encircled

the

Martian

encampment

on

Horsell

Common,

through

charred

and

ruined

villages

among

the

green

trees,

through

the

blackened

and

smoking

arcades

that

had

been

but

a

day

ago

pine

spinneys,

crawled

the

devoted

scouts

with

the

heliographs

that

were

presently

to

warn

the

gunners

of

the

Martian

approach.

But

the

Martians

now

understood

our

command

of

artillery

and

the

danger

of

human

proximity,

and

not

a

man

ventured

within

a

mile

of

either

cylinder,

save

at

the

price

of

his

life.

It

would

seem

that

these

giants

spent

the

earlier

part

of

the

afternoon

in

going

to

and

fro,

transferring

everything

from

the

second

and

third

cylinders—the

second

in

Addlestone

Golf

Links

and

the

third

at

Pyrford—to

their

original

pit

on

Horsell

Common.

Over

that,

above

the

blackened

heather

and

ruined

buildings

that

stretched

far

and

wide,

stood

one

as

sentinel,

while

the

rest

abandoned

their

vast

fighting-machines

and

descended

into

the

pit.

They

were

hard

at

work

there

far

into

the

night,

and

the

towering

pillar

of

dense

green

smoke

that

rose

therefrom

could

be

seen

from

the

hills

about

Merrow,

and

even,

it

is

said,

from

Banstead

and

Epsom

Downs.

And

while

the

Martians

behind

me

were

thus

preparing

for

their

next

sally,

and

in

front

of

me

Humanity

gathered

for

the

battle,

I

made

my

way

with

infinite

pains

and

labour

from

the

fire

and

smoke

of

burning

Weybridge

towards

London.

I

saw

an

abandoned

boat,

very

small

and

remote,

drifting

down-stream;

and

throwing

off

the

most

of

my

sodden

clothes,

I

went

after

it,

gained

it,

and

so

escaped

out

of

that

destruction.

There

were

no

oars

in

the

boat,

but

I

contrived

to

paddle,

as

well

as

my

parboiled

hands

would

allow,

down

the

river

towards

Halliford

and

Walton,

going

very

tediously

and

continually

looking

behind

me,

as

you

may

well

understand.

I

followed

the

river,

because

I

considered

that

the

water

gave

me

my

best

chance

of

escape

should

these

giants

return.

The

hot

water

from

the

Martian’s

overthrow

drifted

downstream

with

me,

so

that

for

the

best

part

of

a

mile

I

could

see

little

of

either

bank.

Once,

however,

I

made

out

a

string

of

black

figures

hurrying

across

the

meadows

from

the

direction

of

Weybridge.

Halliford,

it

seemed,

was

deserted,

and

several

of

the

houses

facing

the

river

were

on

fire.

It

was

strange

to

see

the

place

quite

tranquil,

quite

desolate

under

the

hot

blue

sky,

with

the

smoke

and

little

threads

of

flame

going

straight

up

into

the

heat

of

the

afternoon.

Never

before

had

I

seen

houses

burning

without

the

accompaniment

of

an

obstructive

crowd.

A

little

farther

on

the

dry

reeds

up

the

bank

were

smoking

and

glowing,

and

a

line

of

fire

inland

was

marching

steadily

across

a

late

field

of

hay.

For

a

long

time

I

drifted,

so

painful

and

weary

was

I

after

the

violence

I

had

been

through,

and

so

intense

the

heat

upon

the

water.

Then

my

fears

got

the

better

of

me

again,

and

I

resumed

my

paddling.

The

sun

scorched

my

bare

back.

At

last,

as

the

bridge

at

Walton

was

coming

into

sight

round

the

bend,

my

fever

and

faintness

overcame

my

fears,

and

I

landed

on

the

Middlesex

bank

and

lay

down,

deadly

sick,

amid

the

long

grass.

I

suppose

the

time

was

then

about

four

or

five

o’clock.

I

got

up

presently,

walked

perhaps

half

a

mile

without

meeting

a

soul,

and

then

lay

down

again

in

the

shadow

of

a

hedge.

I

seem

to

remember

talking,

wanderingly,

to

myself

during

that

last

spurt.

I

was

also

very

thirsty,

and

bitterly

regretful

I

had

drunk

no

more

water.

It

is

a

curious

thing

that

I

felt

angry

with

my

wife;

I

cannot

account

for

it,

but

my

impotent

desire

to

reach

Leatherhead

worried

me

excessively.

I

do

not

clearly

remember

the

arrival

of

the

curate,

so

that

probably

I

dozed.

I

became

aware

of

him

as

a

seated

figure

in

soot-smudged

shirt

sleeves,

and

with

his

upturned,

clean-shaven

face

staring

at

a

faint

flickering

that

danced

over

the

sky.

The

sky

was

what

is

called

a

mackerel

sky—rows

and

rows

of

faint

down-plumes

of

cloud,

just

tinted

with

the

midsummer

sunset.

I

sat

up,

and

at

the

rustle

of

my

motion

he

looked

at

me

quickly.

“Have

you

any

water?”

I

asked

abruptly.

He

shook

his

head.

“You

have

been

asking

for

water

for

the

last

hour,”

he

said.

For

a

moment

we

were

silent,

taking

stock

of

each

other.

I

dare

say

he

found

me

a

strange

enough

figure,

naked,

save

for

my

water-soaked

trousers

and

socks,

scalded,

and

my

face

and

shoulders

blackened

by

the

smoke.

His

face

was

a

fair

weakness,

his

chin

retreated,

and

his

hair

lay

in

crisp,

almost

flaxen

curls

on

his

low

forehead;

his

eyes

were

rather

large,

pale

blue,

and

blankly

staring.

He

spoke

abruptly,

looking

vacantly

away

from

me.

“What

does

it

mean?”

he

said.

“What

do

these

things

mean?”

I

stared

at

him

and

made

no

answer.

He

extended

a

thin

white

hand

and

spoke

in

almost

a

complaining

tone.

“Why

are

these

things

permitted?

What

sins

have

we

done?

The

morning

service

was

over,

I

was

walking

through

the

roads

to

clear

my

brain

for

the

afternoon,

and

then—fire,

earthquake,

death!

As

if

it

were

Sodom

and

Gomorrah!

All

our

work

undone,

all

the

work——

What

are

these

Martians?”

“What

are

we?”

I

answered,

clearing

my

throat.

He

gripped

his

knees

and

turned

to

look

at

me

again.

For

half

a

minute,

perhaps,

he

stared

silently.

“I

was

walking

through

the

roads

to

clear

my

brain,”

he

said.

“And

suddenly—fire,

earthquake,

death!”

He

relapsed

into

silence,

with

his

chin

now

sunken

almost

to

his

knees.

Presently

he

began

waving

his

hand.

“All

the

work—all

the

Sunday

schools—What

have

we

done—what

has

Weybridge

done?

Everything

gone—everything

destroyed.

The

church!

We

rebuilt

it

only

three

years

ago.

Gone!

Swept

out

of

existence!

Why?”

Another

pause,

and

he

broke

out

again

like

one

demented.

“The

smoke

of

her

burning

goeth

up

for

ever

and

ever!”

he

shouted.

His

eyes

flamed,

and

he

pointed

a

lean

finger

in

the

direction

of

Weybridge.

By

this

time

I

was

beginning

to

take

his

measure.

The

tremendous

tragedy

in

which

he

had

been

involved—it

was

evident

he

was

a

fugitive

from

Weybridge—had

driven

him

to

the

very

verge

of

his

reason.

“Are

we

far

from

Sunbury?”

I

said,

in

a

matter-of-fact

tone.

“What

are

we

to

do?”

he

asked.

“Are

these

creatures

everywhere?

Has

the

earth

been

given

over

to

them?”

“Are

we

far

from

Sunbury?”

“Only

this

morning

I

officiated

at

early

celebration——”

“Things

have

changed,”

I

said,

quietly.

“You

must

keep

your

head.

There

is

still

hope.”

“Hope!”

“Yes.

Plentiful

hope—for

all

this

destruction!”

I

began

to

explain

my

view

of

our

position.

He

listened

at

first,

but

as

I

went

on

the

interest

dawning

in

his

eyes

gave

place

to

their

former

stare,

and

his

regard

wandered

from

me.

“This

must

be

the

beginning

of

the

end,”

he

said,

interrupting

me.

“The

end!

The

great

and

terrible

day

of

the

Lord!

When

men

shall

call

upon

the

mountains

and

the

rocks

to

fall

upon

them

and

hide

them—hide

them

from

the

face

of

Him

that

sitteth

upon

the

throne!”

I

began

to

understand

the

position.

I

ceased

my

laboured

reasoning,

struggled

to

my

feet,

and,

standing

over

him,

laid

my

hand

on

his

shoulder.

“Be

a

man!”

said

I.

“You

are

scared

out

of

your

wits!

What

good

is

religion

if

it

collapses

under

calamity?

Think

of

what

earthquakes

and

floods,

wars

and

volcanoes,

have

done

before

to

men!

Did

you

think

God

had

exempted

Weybridge?

He

is

not

an

insurance

agent.”

For

a

time

he

sat

in

blank

silence.

“But

how

can

we

escape?”

he

asked,

suddenly.

“They

are

invulnerable,

they

are

pitiless.”

“Neither

the

one

nor,

perhaps,

the

other,”

I

answered.

“And

the

mightier

they

are

the

more

sane

and

wary

should

we

be.

One

of

them

was

killed

yonder

not

three

hours

ago.”

“Killed!”

he

said,

staring

about

him.

“How

can

God’s

ministers

be

killed?”

“I

saw

it

happen.”

I

proceeded

to

tell

him.

“We

have

chanced

to

come

in

for

the

thick

of

it,”

said

I,

“and

that

is

all.”

“What

is

that

flicker

in

the

sky?”

he

asked

abruptly.

I

told

him

it

was

the

heliograph

signalling—that

it

was

the

sign

of

human

help

and

effort

in

the

sky.

“We

are

in

the

midst

of

it,”

I

said,

“quiet

as

it

is.

That

flicker

in

the

sky

tells

of

the

gathering

storm.

Yonder,

I

take

it

are

the

Martians,

and

Londonward,

where

those

hills

rise

about

Richmond

and

Kingston

and

the

trees

give

cover,

earthworks

are

being

thrown

up

and

guns

are

being

placed.

Presently

the

Martians

will

be

coming

this

way

again.”

And

even

as

I

spoke

he

sprang

to

his

feet

and

stopped

me

by

a

gesture.

“Listen!”

he

said.

From

beyond

the

low

hills

across

the

water

came

the

dull

resonance

of

distant

guns

and

a

remote

weird

crying.

Then

everything

was

still.

A

cockchafer

came

droning

over

the

hedge

and

past

us.

High

in

the

west

the

crescent

moon

hung

faint

and

pale

above

the

smoke

of

Weybridge

and

Shepperton

and

the

hot,

still

splendour

of

the

sunset.

“We

had

better

follow

this

path,”

I

said,

“northward.”

XIV.

IN

LONDON.

My

younger

brother

was

in

London

when

the

Martians

fell

at

Woking.

He

was

a

medical

student

working

for

an

imminent

examination,

and

he

heard

nothing

of

the

arrival

until

Saturday

morning.

The

morning

papers

on

Saturday

contained,

in

addition

to

lengthy

special

articles

on

the

planet

Mars,

on

life

in

the

planets,

and

so

forth,

a

brief

and

vaguely

worded

telegram,

all

the

more

striking

for

its

brevity.

The

Martians,

alarmed

by

the

approach

of

a

crowd,

had

killed

a

number

of

people

with

a

quick-firing

gun,

so

the

story

ran.

The

telegram

concluded

with

the

words:

“Formidable

as

they

seem

to

be,

the

Martians

have

not

moved

from

the

pit

into

which

they

have

fallen,

and,

indeed,

seem

incapable

of

doing

so.

Probably

this

is

due

to

the

relative

strength

of

the

earth’s

gravitational

energy.”

On

that

last

text

their

leader-writer

expanded

very

comfortingly.

Of

course

all

the

students

in

the

crammer’s

biology

class,

to

which

my

brother

went

that

day,

were

intensely

interested,

but

there

were

no

signs

of

any

unusual

excitement

in

the

streets.

The

afternoon

papers

puffed

scraps

of

news

under

big

headlines.

They

had

nothing

to

tell

beyond

the

movements

of

troops

about

the

common,

and

the

burning

of

the

pine

woods

between

Woking

and

Weybridge,

until

eight.

Then

the

St.

James’s

Gazette,

in

an

extra-special

edition,

announced

the

bare

fact

of

the

interruption

of

telegraphic

communication.

This

was

thought

to

be

due

to

the

falling

of

burning

pine

trees

across

the

line.

Nothing

more

of

the

fighting

was

known

that

night,

the

night

of

my

drive

to

Leatherhead

and

back.

My

brother

felt

no

anxiety

about

us,

as

he

knew

from

the

description

in

the

papers

that

the

cylinder

was

a

good

two

miles

from

my

house.

He

made

up

his

mind

to

run

down

that

night

to

me,

in

order,

as

he

says,

to

see

the

Things

before

they

were

killed.

He

dispatched

a

telegram,

which

never

reached

me,

about

four

o’clock,

and

spent

the

evening

at

a

music

hall.

In

London,

also,

on

Saturday

night

there

was

a

thunderstorm,

and

my

brother

reached

Waterloo

in

a

cab.

On

the

platform

from

which

the

midnight

train

usually

starts

he

learned,

after

some

waiting,

that

an

accident

prevented

trains

from

reaching

Woking

that

night.

The

nature

of

the

accident

he

could

not

ascertain;

indeed,

the

railway

authorities

did

not

clearly

know

at

that

time.

There

was

very

little

excitement

in

the

station,

as

the

officials,

failing

to

realise

that

anything

further

than

a

breakdown

between

Byfleet

and

Woking

junction

had

occurred,

were

running

the

theatre

trains

which

usually

passed

through

Woking

round

by

Virginia

Water

or

Guildford.

They

were

busy

making

the

necessary

arrangements

to

alter

the

route

of

the

Southampton

and

Portsmouth

Sunday

League

excursions.

A

nocturnal

newspaper

reporter,

mistaking

my

brother

for

the

traffic

manager,

to

whom

he

bears

a

slight

resemblance,

waylaid

and

tried

to

interview

him.

Few

people,

excepting

the

railway

officials,

connected

the

breakdown

with

the

Martians.

I

have

read,

in

another

account

of

these

events,

that

on

Sunday

morning

“all

London

was

electrified

by

the

news

from

Woking.”

As

a

matter

of

fact,

there

was

nothing

to

justify

that

very

extravagant

phrase.

Plenty

of

Londoners

did

not

hear

of

the

Martians

until

the

panic

of

Monday

morning.

Those

who

did

took

some

time

to

realise

all

that

the

hastily

worded

telegrams

in

the

Sunday

papers

conveyed.

The

majority

of

people

in

London

do

not

read

Sunday

papers.

The

habit

of

personal

security,

moreover,

is

so

deeply

fixed

in

the

Londoner’s

mind,

and

startling

intelligence

so

much

a

matter

of

course

in

the

papers,

that

they

could

read

without

any

personal

tremors:

“About

seven

o’clock

last

night

the

Martians

came

out

of

the

cylinder,

and,

moving

about

under

an

armour

of

metallic

shields,

have

completely

wrecked

Woking

station

with

the

adjacent

houses,

and

massacred

an

entire

battalion

of

the

Cardigan

Regiment.

No

details

are

known.

Maxims

have

been

absolutely

useless

against

their

armour;

the

field

guns

have

been

disabled

by

them.

Flying

hussars

have

been

galloping

into

Chertsey.

The

Martians

appear

to

be

moving

slowly

towards

Chertsey

or

Windsor.

Great

anxiety

prevails

in

West

Surrey,

and

earthworks

are

being

thrown

up

to

check

the

advance

Londonward.”

That

was

how

the

Sunday

Sun

put

it,

and

a

clever

and

remarkably

prompt

“handbook”

article

in

the

Referee

compared

the

affair

to

a

menagerie

suddenly

let

loose

in

a

village.

No

one

in

London

knew

positively

of

the

nature

of

the

armoured

Martians,

and

there

was

still

a

fixed

idea

that

these

monsters

must

be

sluggish:

“crawling,”

“creeping

painfully”—such

expressions

occurred

in

almost

all

the

earlier

reports.

None

of

the

telegrams

could

have

been

written

by

an

eyewitness

of

their

advance.

The

Sunday

papers

printed

separate

editions

as

further

news

came

to

hand,

some

even

in

default

of

it.

But

there

was

practically

nothing

more

to

tell

people

until

late

in

the

afternoon,

when

the

authorities

gave

the

press

agencies

the

news

in

their

possession.

It

was

stated

that

the

people

of

Walton

and

Weybridge,

and

all

the

district

were

pouring

along

the

roads

Londonward,

and

that

was

all.

My

brother

went

to

church

at

the

Foundling

Hospital

in

the

morning,

still

in

ignorance

of

what

had

happened

on

the

previous

night.

There

he

heard

allusions

made

to

the

invasion,

and

a

special

prayer

for

peace.

Coming

out,

he

bought

a

Referee.

He

became

alarmed

at

the

news

in

this,

and

went

again

to

Waterloo

station

to

find

out

if

communication

were

restored.

The

omnibuses,

carriages,

cyclists,

and

innumerable

people

walking

in

their

best

clothes

seemed

scarcely

affected

by

the

strange

intelligence

that

the

newsvendors

were

disseminating.

People

were

interested,

or,

if

alarmed,

alarmed

only

on

account

of

the

local

residents.

At

the

station

he

heard

for

the

first

time

that

the

Windsor

and

Chertsey

lines

were

now

interrupted.

The

porters

told

him

that

several

remarkable

telegrams

had

been

received

in

the

morning

from

Byfleet

and

Chertsey

stations,

but

that

these

had

abruptly

ceased.

My

brother

could

get

very

little

precise

detail

out

of

them.

“There’s

fighting

going

on

about

Weybridge”

was

the

extent

of

their

information.

The

train

service

was

now

very

much

disorganised.

Quite

a

number

of

people

who

had

been

expecting

friends

from

places

on

the

South-Western

network

were

standing

about

the

station.

One

grey-headed

old

gentleman

came

and

abused

the

South-Western

Company

bitterly

to

my

brother.

“It

wants

showing

up,”

he

said.

One

or

two

trains

came

in

from

Richmond,

Putney,

and

Kingston,

containing

people

who

had

gone

out

for

a

day’s

boating

and

found

the

locks

closed

and

a

feeling

of

panic

in

the

air.

A

man

in

a

blue

and

white

blazer

addressed

my

brother,

full

of

strange

tidings.

“There’s

hosts

of

people

driving

into

Kingston

in

traps

and

carts

and

things,

with

boxes

of

valuables

and

all

that,”

he

said.

“They

come

from

Molesey

and

Weybridge

and

Walton,

and

they

say

there’s

been

guns

heard

at

Chertsey,

heavy

firing,

and

that

mounted

soldiers

have

told

them

to

get

off

at

once

because

the

Martians

are

coming.

We

heard

guns

firing

at

Hampton

Court

station,

but

we

thought

it

was

thunder.

What

the

dickens

does

it

all

mean?

The

Martians

can’t

get

out

of

their

pit,

can

they?”

My

brother

could

not

tell

him.

Afterwards

he

found

that

the

vague

feeling

of

alarm

had

spread

to

the

clients

of

the

underground

railway,

and

that

the

Sunday

excursionists

began

to

return

from

all

over

the

South-Western

“lung”—Barnes,

Wimbledon,

Richmond

Park,

Kew,

and

so

forth—at

unnaturally

early

hours;

but

not

a

soul

had

anything

more

than

vague

hearsay

to

tell

of.

Everyone

connected

with

the

terminus

seemed

ill-tempered.

About

five

o’clock

the

gathering

crowd

in

the

station

was

immensely

excited

by

the

opening

of

the

line

of

communication,

which

is

almost

invariably

closed,

between

the

South-Eastern

and

the

South-Western

stations,

and

the

passage

of

carriage

trucks

bearing

huge

guns

and

carriages

crammed

with

soldiers.

These

were

the

guns

that

were

brought

up

from

Woolwich

and

Chatham

to

cover

Kingston.

There

was

an

exchange

of

pleasantries:

“You’ll

get

eaten!”

“We’re

the

beast-tamers!”

and

so

forth.

A

little

while

after

that

a

squad

of

police

came

into

the

station

and

began

to

clear

the

public

off

the

platforms,

and

my

brother

went

out

into

the

street

again.

The

church

bells

were

ringing

for

evensong,

and

a

squad

of

Salvation

Army

lassies

came

singing

down

Waterloo

Road.

On

the

bridge

a

number

of

loafers

were

watching

a

curious

brown

scum

that

came

drifting

down

the

stream

in

patches.

The

sun

was

just

setting,

and

the

Clock

Tower

and

the

Houses

of

Parliament

rose

against

one

of

the

most

peaceful

skies

it

is

possible

to

imagine,

a

sky

of

gold,

barred

with

long

transverse

stripes

of

reddish-purple

cloud.

There

was

talk

of

a

floating

body.

One

of

the

men

there,

a

reservist

he

said

he

was,

told

my

brother

he

had

seen

the

heliograph

flickering

in

the

west.

In

Wellington

Street

my

brother

met

a

couple

of

sturdy

roughs

who

had

just

been

rushed

out

of

Fleet

Street

with

still-wet

newspapers

and

staring

placards.

“Dreadful

catastrophe!”

they

bawled

one

to

the

other

down

Wellington

Street.

“Fighting

at

Weybridge!

Full

description!

Repulse

of

the

Martians!

London

in

Danger!”

He

had

to

give

threepence

for

a

copy

of

that

paper.

Then

it

was,

and

then

only,

that

he

realised

something

of

the

full

power

and

terror

of

these

monsters.

He

learned

that

they

were

not

merely

a

handful

of

small

sluggish

creatures,

but

that

they

were

minds

swaying

vast

mechanical

bodies;

and

that

they

could

move

swiftly

and

smite

with

such

power

that

even

the

mightiest

guns

could

not

stand

against

them.

They

were

described

as

“vast

spiderlike

machines,

nearly

a

hundred

feet

high,

capable

of

the

speed

of

an

express

train,

and

able

to

shoot

out

a

beam

of

intense

heat.”

Masked

batteries,

chiefly

of

field

guns,

had

been

planted

in

the

country

about

Horsell

Common,

and

especially

between

the

Woking

district

and

London.

Five

of

the

machines

had

been

seen

moving

towards

the

Thames,

and

one,

by

a

happy

chance,

had

been

destroyed.

In

the

other

cases

the

shells

had

missed,

and

the

batteries

had

been

at

once

annihilated

by

the

Heat-Rays.

Heavy

losses

of

soldiers

were

mentioned,

but

the

tone

of

the

dispatch

was

optimistic.

The

Martians

had

been

repulsed;

they

were

not

invulnerable.

They

had

retreated

to

their

triangle

of

cylinders

again,

in

the

circle

about

Woking.

Signallers

with

heliographs

were

pushing

forward

upon

them

from

all

sides.

Guns

were

in

rapid

transit

from

Windsor,

Portsmouth,

Aldershot,

Woolwich—even

from

the

north;

among

others,

long

wire-guns

of

ninety-five

tons

from

Woolwich.

Altogether

one

hundred

and

sixteen

were

in

position

or

being

hastily

placed,

chiefly

covering

London.

Never

before

in

England

had

there

been

such

a

vast

or

rapid

concentration

of

military

material.

Any

further

cylinders

that

fell,

it

was

hoped,

could

be

destroyed

at

once

by

high

explosives,

which

were

being

rapidly

manufactured

and

distributed.

No

doubt,

ran

the

report,

the

situation

was

of

the

strangest

and

gravest

description,

but

the

public

was

exhorted

to

avoid

and

discourage

panic.

No

doubt

the

Martians

were

strange

and

terrible

in

the

extreme,

but

at

the

outside

there

could

not

be

more

than

twenty

of

them

against

our

millions.

The

authorities

had

reason

to

suppose,

from

the

size

of

the

cylinders,

that

at

the

outside

there

could

not

be

more

than

five

in

each

cylinder—fifteen

altogether.

And

one

at

least

was

disposed

of—perhaps

more.

The

public

would

be

fairly

warned

of

the

approach

of

danger,

and

elaborate

measures

were

being

taken

for

the

protection

of

the

people

in

the

threatened

southwestern

suburbs.

And

so,

with

reiterated

assurances

of

the

safety

of

London

and

the

ability

of

the

authorities

to

cope

with

the

difficulty,

this

quasi-proclamation

closed.

This

was

printed

in

enormous

type

on

paper

so

fresh

that

it

was

still

wet,

and

there

had

been

no

time

to

add

a

word

of

comment.

It

was

curious,

my

brother

said,

to

see

how

ruthlessly

the

usual

contents

of

the

paper

had

been

hacked

and

taken

out

to

give

this

place.

All

down

Wellington

Street

people

could

be

seen

fluttering

out

the

pink

sheets

and

reading,

and

the

Strand

was

suddenly

noisy

with

the

voices

of

an

army

of

hawkers

following

these

pioneers.

Men

came

scrambling

off

buses

to

secure

copies.

Certainly

this

news

excited

people

intensely,

whatever

their

previous

apathy.

The

shutters

of

a

map

shop

in

the

Strand

were

being

taken

down,

my

brother

said,

and

a

man

in

his

Sunday

raiment,

lemon-yellow

gloves

even,

was

visible

inside

the

window

hastily

fastening

maps

of

Surrey

to

the

glass.

Going

on

along

the

Strand

to

Trafalgar

Square,

the

paper

in

his

hand,

my

brother

saw

some

of

the

fugitives

from

West

Surrey.

There

was

a

man

with

his

wife

and

two

boys

and

some

articles

of

furniture

in

a

cart

such

as

greengrocers

use.

He

was

driving

from

the

direction

of

Westminster

Bridge;

and

close

behind

him

came

a

hay

waggon

with

five

or

six

respectable-looking

people

in

it,

and

some

boxes

and

bundles.

The

faces

of

these

people

were

haggard,

and

their

entire

appearance

contrasted

conspicuously

with

the

Sabbath-best

appearance

of

the

people

on

the

omnibuses.

People

in

fashionable

clothing

peeped

at

them

out

of

cabs.

They

stopped

at

the

Square

as

if

undecided

which

way

to

take,

and

finally

turned

eastward

along

the

Strand.

Some

way

behind

these

came

a

man

in

workday

clothes,

riding

one

of

those

old-fashioned

tricycles

with

a

small

front

wheel.

He

was

dirty

and

white

in

the

face.

My

brother

turned

down

towards

Victoria,

and

met

a

number

of

such

people.

He

had

a

vague

idea

that

he

might

see

something

of

me.

He

noticed

an

unusual

number

of

police

regulating

the

traffic.

Some

of

the

refugees

were

exchanging

news

with

the

people

on

the

omnibuses.

One

was

professing

to

have

seen

the

Martians.

“Boilers

on

stilts,

I

tell

you,

striding

along

like

men.”

Most

of

them

were

excited

and

animated

by

their

strange

experience.

Beyond

Victoria

the

public-houses

were

doing

a

lively

trade

with

these

arrivals.

At

all

the

street

corners

groups

of

people

were

reading

papers,

talking

excitedly,

or

staring

at

these

unusual

Sunday

visitors.

They

seemed

to

increase

as

night

drew

on,

until

at

last

the

roads,

my

brother

said,

were

like

Epsom

High

Street

on

a

Derby

Day.

My

brother

addressed

several

of

these

fugitives

and

got

unsatisfactory

answers

from

most.

None

of

them

could

tell

him

any

news

of

Woking

except

one

man,

who

assured

him

that

Woking

had

been

entirely

destroyed

on

the

previous

night.

“I

come

from

Byfleet,”

he

said;

“a

man

on

a

bicycle

came

through

the

place

in

the

early

morning,

and

ran

from

door

to

door

warning

us

to

come

away.

Then

came

soldiers.

We

went

out

to

look,

and

there

were

clouds

of

smoke

to

the

south—nothing

but

smoke,

and

not

a

soul

coming

that

way.

Then

we

heard

the

guns

at

Chertsey,

and

folks

coming

from

Weybridge.

So

I’ve

locked

up

my

house

and

come

on.”

At

that

time

there

was

a

strong

feeling

in

the

streets

that

the

authorities

were

to

blame

for

their

incapacity

to

dispose

of

the

invaders

without

all

this

inconvenience.

About

eight

o’clock

a

noise

of

heavy

firing

was

distinctly

audible

all

over

the

south

of

London.

My

brother

could

not

hear

it

for

the

traffic

in

the

main

thoroughfares,

but

by

striking

through

the

quiet

back

streets

to

the

river

he

was

able

to

distinguish

it

quite

plainly.

He

walked

from

Westminster

to

his

apartments

near

Regent’s

Park,

about

two.

He

was

now

very

anxious

on

my

account,

and

disturbed

at

the

evident

magnitude

of

the

trouble.

His

mind

was

inclined

to

run,

even

as

mine

had

run

on

Saturday,

on

military

details.

He

thought

of

all

those

silent,

expectant

guns,

of

the

suddenly

nomadic

countryside;

he

tried

to

imagine

“boilers

on

stilts”

a

hundred

feet

high.

There

were

one

or

two

cartloads

of

refugees

passing

along

Oxford

Street,

and

several

in

the

Marylebone

Road,

but

so

slowly

was

the

news

spreading

that

Regent

Street

and

Portland

Place

were

full

of

their

usual

Sunday-night

promenaders,

albeit

they

talked

in

groups,

and

along

the

edge

of

Regent’s

Park

there

were

as

many

silent

couples

“walking

out”

together

under

the

scattered

gas

lamps

as

ever

there

had

been.

The

night

was

warm

and

still,

and

a

little

oppressive;

the

sound

of

guns

continued

intermittently,

and

after

midnight

there

seemed

to

be

sheet

lightning

in

the

south.

He

read

and

re-read

the

paper,

fearing

the

worst

had

happened

to

me.

He

was

restless,

and

after

supper

prowled

out

again

aimlessly.

He

returned

and

tried

in

vain

to

divert

his

attention

to

his

examination

notes.

He

went

to

bed

a

little

after

midnight,

and

was

awakened

from

lurid

dreams

in

the

small

hours

of

Monday

by

the

sound

of

door

knockers,

feet

running

in

the

street,

distant

drumming,

and

a

clamour

of

bells.

Red

reflections

danced

on

the

ceiling.

For

a

moment

he

lay

astonished,

wondering

whether

day

had

come

or

the

world

gone

mad.

Then

he

jumped

out

of

bed

and

ran

to

the

window.

His

room

was

an

attic

and

as

he

thrust

his

head

out,

up

and

down

the

street

there

were

a

dozen

echoes

to

the

noise

of

his

window

sash,

and

heads

in

every

kind

of

night

disarray

appeared.

Enquiries

were

being

shouted.

“They

are

coming!”

bawled

a

policeman,

hammering

at

the

door;

“the

Martians

are

coming!”

and

hurried

to

the

next

door.

The

sound

of

drumming

and

trumpeting

came

from

the

Albany

Street

Barracks,

and

every

church

within

earshot

was

hard

at

work

killing

sleep

with

a

vehement

disorderly

tocsin.

There

was

a

noise

of

doors

opening,

and

window

after

window

in

the

houses

opposite

flashed

from

darkness

into

yellow

illumination.

Up

the

street

came

galloping

a

closed

carriage,

bursting

abruptly

into

noise

at

the

corner,

rising

to

a

clattering

climax

under

the

window,

and

dying

away

slowly

in

the

distance.

Close

on

the

rear

of

this

came

a

couple

of

cabs,

the

forerunners

of

a

long

procession

of

flying

vehicles,

going

for

the

most

part

to

Chalk

Farm

station,

where

the

North-Western

special

trains

were

loading

up,

instead

of

coming

down

the

gradient

into

Euston.

For

a

long

time

my

brother

stared

out

of

the

window

in

blank

astonishment,

watching

the

policemen

hammering

at

door

after

door,

and

delivering

their

incomprehensible

message.

Then

the

door

behind

him

opened,

and

the

man

who

lodged

across

the

landing

came

in,

dressed

only

in

shirt,

trousers,

and

slippers,

his

braces

loose

about

his

waist,

his

hair

disordered

from

his

pillow.

“What

the

devil

is

it?”

he

asked.

“A

fire?

What

a

devil

of

a

row!”

They

both

craned

their

heads

out

of

the

window,

straining

to

hear

what

the

policemen

were

shouting.

People

were

coming

out

of

the

side

streets,

and

standing

in

groups

at

the

corners

talking.

“What

the

devil

is

it

all

about?”

said

my

brother’s

fellow

lodger.

My

brother

answered

him

vaguely

and

began

to

dress,

running

with

each

garment

to

the

window

in

order

to

miss

nothing

of

the

growing

excitement.

And

presently

men

selling

unnaturally

early

newspapers

came

bawling

into

the

street:

“London

in

danger

of

suffocation!

The

Kingston

and

Richmond

defences

forced!

Fearful

massacres

in

the

Thames

Valley!”

And

all

about

him—in

the

rooms

below,

in

the

houses

on

each

side

and

across

the

road,

and

behind

in

the

Park

Terraces

and

in

the

hundred

other

streets

of

that

part

of

Marylebone,

and

the

Westbourne

Park

district

and

St.

Pancras,

and

westward

and

northward

in

Kilburn

and

St.

John’s

Wood

and

Hampstead,

and

eastward

in

Shoreditch

and

Highbury

and

Haggerston

and

Hoxton,

and,

indeed,

through

all

the

vastness

of

London

from

Ealing

to

East

Ham—people

were

rubbing

their

eyes,

and

opening

windows

to

stare

out

and

ask

aimless

questions,

dressing

hastily

as

the

first

breath

of

the

coming

storm

of

Fear

blew

through

the

streets.

It

was

the

dawn

of

the

great

panic.

London,

which

had

gone

to

bed

on

Sunday

night

oblivious

and

inert,

was

awakened,

in

the

small

hours

of

Monday

morning,

to

a

vivid

sense

of

danger.

Unable

from

his

window

to

learn

what

was

happening,

my

brother

went

down

and

out

into

the

street,

just

as

the

sky

between

the

parapets

of

the

houses

grew

pink

with

the

early

dawn.

The

flying

people

on

foot

and

in

vehicles

grew

more

numerous

every

moment.

“Black

Smoke!”

he

heard

people

crying,

and

again

“Black

Smoke!”

The

contagion

of

such

a

unanimous

fear

was

inevitable.

As

my

brother

hesitated

on

the

door-step,

he

saw

another

newsvendor

approaching,

and

got

a

paper

forthwith.

The

man

was

running

away

with

the

rest,

and

selling

his

papers

for

a

shilling

each

as

he

ran—a

grotesque

mingling

of

profit

and

panic.

And

from

this

paper

my

brother

read

that

catastrophic

dispatch

of

the

Commander-in-Chief:

“The

Martians

are

able

to

discharge

enormous

clouds

of

a

black

and

poisonous

vapour

by

means

of

rockets.

They

have

smothered

our

batteries,

destroyed

Richmond,

Kingston,

and

Wimbledon,

and

are

advancing

slowly

towards

London,

destroying

everything

on

the

way.

It

is

impossible

to

stop

them.

There

is

no

safety

from

the

Black

Smoke

but

in

instant

flight.”

That

was

all,

but

it

was

enough.

The

whole

population

of

the

great

six-million

city

was

stirring,

slipping,

running;

presently

it

would

be

pouring

en

masse

northward.

“Black

Smoke!”

the

voices

cried.

“Fire!”

The

bells

of

the

neighbouring

church

made

a

jangling

tumult,

a

cart

carelessly

driven

smashed,

amid

shrieks

and

curses,

against

the

water

trough

up

the

street.

Sickly

yellow

lights

went

to

and

fro

in

the

houses,

and

some

of

the

passing

cabs

flaunted

unextinguished

lamps.

And

overhead

the

dawn

was

growing

brighter,

clear

and

steady

and

calm.

He

heard

footsteps

running

to

and

fro

in

the

rooms,

and

up

and

down

stairs

behind

him.

His

landlady

came

to

the

door,

loosely

wrapped

in

dressing

gown

and

shawl;

her

husband

followed,

ejaculating.

As

my

brother

began

to

realise

the

import

of

all

these

things,

he

turned

hastily

to

his

own

room,

put

all

his

available

money—some

ten

pounds

altogether—into

his

pockets,

and

went

out

again

into

the

streets.

XV.

WHAT

HAD

HAPPENED

IN

SURREY.

It

was

while

the

curate

had

sat

and

talked

so

wildly

to

me

under

the

hedge

in

the

flat

meadows

near

Halliford,

and

while

my

brother

was

watching

the

fugitives

stream

over

Westminster

Bridge,

that

the

Martians

had

resumed

the

offensive.

So

far

as

one

can

ascertain

from

the

conflicting

accounts

that

have

been

put

forth,

the

majority

of

them

remained

busied

with

preparations

in

the

Horsell

pit

until

nine

that

night,

hurrying

on

some

operation

that

disengaged

huge

volumes

of

green

smoke.

But

three

certainly

came

out

about

eight

o’clock

and,

advancing

slowly

and

cautiously,

made

their

way

through

Byfleet

and

Pyrford

towards

Ripley

and

Weybridge,

and

so

came

in

sight

of

the

expectant

batteries

against

the

setting

sun.

These

Martians

did

not

advance

in

a

body,

but

in

a

line,

each

perhaps

a

mile

and

a

half

from

his

nearest

fellow.

They

communicated

with

one

another

by

means

of

sirenlike

howls,

running

up

and

down

the

scale

from

one

note

to

another.

It

was

this

howling

and

firing

of

the

guns

at

Ripley

and

St.

George’s

Hill

that

we

had

heard

at

Upper

Halliford.

The

Ripley

gunners,

unseasoned

artillery

volunteers

who

ought

never

to

have

been

placed

in

such

a

position,

fired

one

wild,

premature,

ineffectual

volley,

and

bolted

on

horse

and

foot

through

the

deserted

village,

while

the

Martian,

without

using

his

Heat-Ray,

walked

serenely

over

their

guns,

stepped

gingerly

among

them,

passed

in

front

of

them,

and

so

came

unexpectedly

upon

the

guns

in

Painshill

Park,

which

he

destroyed.

The

St.

George’s

Hill

men,

however,

were

better

led

or

of

a

better

mettle.

Hidden

by

a

pine

wood

as

they

were,

they

seem

to

have

been

quite

unsuspected

by

the

Martian

nearest

to

them.

They

laid

their

guns

as

deliberately

as

if

they

had

been

on

parade,

and

fired

at

about

a

thousand

yards’

range.

The

shells

flashed

all

round

him,

and

he

was

seen

to

advance

a

few

paces,

stagger,

and

go

down.

Everybody

yelled

together,

and

the

guns

were

reloaded

in

frantic

haste.

The

overthrown

Martian

set

up

a

prolonged

ululation,

and

immediately

a

second

glittering

giant,

answering

him,

appeared

over

the

trees

to

the

south.

It

would

seem

that

a

leg

of

the

tripod

had

been

smashed

by

one

of

the

shells.

The

whole

of

the

second

volley

flew

wide

of

the

Martian

on

the

ground,

and,

simultaneously,

both

his

companions

brought

their

Heat-Rays

to

bear

on

the

battery.

The

ammunition

blew

up,

the

pine

trees

all

about

the

guns

flashed

into

fire,

and

only

one

or

two

of

the

men

who

were

already

running

over

the

crest

of

the

hill

escaped.

After

this

it

would

seem

that

the

three

took

counsel

together

and

halted,

and

the

scouts

who

were

watching

them

report

that

they

remained

absolutely

stationary

for

the

next

half

hour.

The

Martian

who

had

been

overthrown

crawled

tediously

out

of

his

hood,

a

small

brown

figure,

oddly

suggestive

from

that

distance

of

a

speck

of

blight,

and

apparently

engaged

in

the

repair

of

his

support.

About

nine

he

had

finished,

for

his

cowl

was

then

seen

above

the

trees

again.

It

was

a

few

minutes

past

nine

that

night

when

these

three

sentinels

were

joined

by

four

other

Martians,

each

carrying

a

thick

black

tube.

A

similar

tube

was

handed

to

each

of

the

three,

and

the

seven

proceeded

to

distribute

themselves

at

equal

distances

along

a

curved

line

between

St.

George’s

Hill,

Weybridge,

and

the

village

of

Send,

southwest

of

Ripley.

A

dozen

rockets

sprang

out

of

the

hills

before

them

so

soon

as

they

began

to

move,

and

warned

the

waiting

batteries

about

Ditton

and

Esher.

At

the

same

time

four

of

their

fighting

machines,

similarly

armed

with

tubes,

crossed

the

river,

and

two

of

them,

black

against

the

western

sky,

came

into

sight

of

myself

and

the

curate

as

we

hurried

wearily

and

painfully

along

the

road

that

runs

northward

out

of

Halliford.

They

moved,

as

it

seemed

to

us,

upon

a

cloud,

for

a

milky

mist

covered

the

fields

and

rose

to

a

third

of

their

height.

At

this

sight

the

curate

cried

faintly

in

his

throat,

and

began

running;

but

I

knew

it

was

no

good

running

from

a

Martian,

and

I

turned

aside

and

crawled

through

dewy

nettles

and

brambles

into

the

broad

ditch

by

the

side

of

the

road.

He

looked

back,

saw

what

I

was

doing,

and

turned

to

join

me.

The

two

halted,

the

nearer

to

us

standing

and

facing

Sunbury,

the

remoter

being

a

grey

indistinctness

towards

the

evening

star,

away

towards

Staines.

The

occasional

howling

of

the

Martians

had

ceased;

they

took

up

their

positions

in

the

huge

crescent

about

their

cylinders

in

absolute

silence.

It

was

a

crescent

with

twelve

miles

between

its

horns.

Never

since

the

devising

of

gunpowder

was

the

beginning

of

a

battle

so

still.

To

us

and

to

an

observer

about

Ripley

it

would

have

had

precisely

the

same

effect—the

Martians

seemed

in

solitary

possession

of

the

darkling

night,

lit

only

as

it

was

by

the

slender

moon,

the

stars,

the

afterglow

of

the

daylight,

and

the

ruddy

glare

from

St.

George’s

Hill

and

the

woods

of

Painshill.

But

facing

that

crescent

everywhere—at

Staines,

Hounslow,

Ditton,

Esher,

Ockham,

behind

hills

and

woods

south

of

the

river,

and

across

the

flat

grass

meadows

to

the

north

of

it,

wherever

a

cluster

of

trees

or

village

houses

gave

sufficient

cover—the

guns

were

waiting.

The

signal

rockets

burst

and

rained

their

sparks

through

the

night

and

vanished,

and

the

spirit

of

all

those

watching

batteries

rose

to

a

tense

expectation.

The

Martians

had

but

to

advance

into

the

line

of

fire,

and

instantly

those

motionless

black

forms

of

men,

those

guns

glittering

so

darkly

in

the

early

night,

would

explode

into

a

thunderous

fury

of

battle.

No

doubt

the

thought

that

was

uppermost

in

a

thousand

of

those

vigilant

minds,

even

as

it

was

uppermost

in

mine,

was

the

riddle—how

much

they

understood

of

us.

Did

they

grasp

that

we

in

our

millions

were

organized,

disciplined,

working

together?

Or

did

they

interpret

our

spurts

of

fire,

the

sudden

stinging

of

our

shells,

our

steady

investment

of

their

encampment,

as

we

should

the

furious

unanimity

of

onslaught

in

a

disturbed

hive

of

bees?

Did

they

dream

they

might

exterminate

us?

(At

that

time

no

one

knew

what

food

they

needed.)

A

hundred

such

questions

struggled

together

in

my

mind

as

I

watched

that

vast

sentinel

shape.

And

in

the

back

of

my

mind

was

the

sense

of

all

the

huge

unknown

and

hidden

forces

Londonward.

Had

they

prepared

pitfalls?

Were

the

powder

mills

at

Hounslow

ready

as

a

snare?

Would

the

Londoners

have

the

heart

and

courage

to

make

a

greater

Moscow

of

their

mighty

province

of

houses?

Then,

after

an

interminable

time,

as

it

seemed

to

us,

crouching

and

peering

through

the

hedge,

came

a

sound

like

the

distant

concussion

of

a

gun.

Another

nearer,

and

then

another.

And

then

the

Martian

beside

us

raised

his

tube

on

high

and

discharged

it,

gunwise,

with

a

heavy

report

that

made

the

ground

heave.

The

one

towards

Staines

answered

him.

There

was

no

flash,

no

smoke,

simply

that

loaded

detonation.

I

was

so

excited

by

these

heavy

minute-guns

following

one

another

that

I

so

far

forgot

my

personal

safety

and

my

scalded

hands

as

to

clamber

up

into

the

hedge

and

stare

towards

Sunbury.

As

I

did

so

a

second

report

followed,

and

a

big

projectile

hurtled

overhead

towards

Hounslow.

I

expected

at

least

to

see

smoke

or

fire,

or

some

such

evidence

of

its

work.

But

all

I

saw

was

the

deep

blue

sky

above,

with

one

solitary

star,

and

the

white

mist

spreading

wide

and

low

beneath.

And

there

had

been

no

crash,

no

answering

explosion.

The

silence

was

restored;

the

minute

lengthened

to

three.

“What

has

happened?”

said

the

curate,

standing

up

beside

me.

“Heaven

knows!”

said

I.

A

bat

flickered

by

and

vanished.

A

distant

tumult

of

shouting

began

and

ceased.

I

looked

again

at

the

Martian,

and

saw

he

was

now

moving

eastward

along

the

riverbank,

with

a

swift,

rolling

motion.

Every

moment

I

expected

the

fire

of

some

hidden

battery

to

spring

upon

him;

but

the

evening

calm

was

unbroken.

The

figure

of

the

Martian

grew

smaller

as

he

receded,

and

presently

the

mist

and

the

gathering

night

had

swallowed

him

up.

By

a

common

impulse

we

clambered

higher.

Towards

Sunbury

was

a

dark

appearance,

as

though

a

conical

hill

had

suddenly

come

into

being

there,

hiding

our

view

of

the

farther

country;

and

then,

remoter

across

the

river,

over

Walton,

we

saw

another

such

summit.

These

hill-like

forms

grew

lower

and

broader

even

as

we

stared.

Moved

by

a

sudden

thought,

I

looked

northward,

and

there

I

perceived

a

third

of

these

cloudy

black

kopjes

had

risen.

Everything

had

suddenly

become

very

still.

Far

away

to

the

southeast,

marking

the

quiet,

we

heard

the

Martians

hooting

to

one

another,

and

then

the

air

quivered

again

with

the

distant

thud

of

their

guns.

But

the

earthly

artillery

made

no

reply.

Now

at

the

time

we

could

not

understand

these

things,

but

later

I

was

to

learn

the

meaning

of

these

ominous

kopjes

that

gathered

in

the

twilight.

Each

of

the

Martians,

standing

in

the

great

crescent

I

have

described,

had

discharged,

by

means

of

the

gunlike

tube

he

carried,

a

huge

canister

over

whatever

hill,

copse,

cluster

of

houses,

or

other

possible

cover

for

guns,

chanced

to

be

in

front

of

him.

Some

fired

only

one

of

these,

some

two—as

in

the

case

of

the

one

we

had

seen;

the

one

at

Ripley

is

said

to

have

discharged

no

fewer

than

five

at

that

time.

These

canisters

smashed

on

striking

the

ground—they

did

not

explode—and

incontinently

disengaged

an

enormous

volume

of

heavy,

inky

vapour,

coiling

and

pouring

upward

in

a

huge

and

ebony

cumulus

cloud,

a

gaseous

hill

that

sank

and

spread

itself

slowly

over

the

surrounding

country.

And

the

touch

of

that

vapour,

the

inhaling

of

its

pungent

wisps,

was

death

to

all

that

breathes.

It

was

heavy,

this

vapour,

heavier

than

the

densest

smoke,

so

that,

after

the

first

tumultuous

uprush

and

outflow

of

its

impact,

it

sank

down

through

the

air

and

poured

over

the

ground

in

a

manner

rather

liquid

than

gaseous,

abandoning

the

hills,

and

streaming

into

the

valleys

and

ditches

and

watercourses

even

as

I

have

heard

the

carbonic-acid

gas

that

pours

from

volcanic

clefts

is

wont

to

do.

And

where

it

came

upon

water

some

chemical

action

occurred,

and

the

surface

would

be

instantly

covered

with

a

powdery

scum

that

sank

slowly

and

made

way

for

more.

The

scum

was

absolutely

insoluble,

and

it

is

a

strange

thing,

seeing

the

instant

effect

of

the

gas,

that

one

could

drink

without

hurt

the

water

from

which

it

had

been

strained.

The

vapour

did

not

diffuse

as

a

true

gas

would

do.

It

hung

together

in

banks,

flowing

sluggishly

down

the

slope

of

the

land

and

driving

reluctantly

before

the

wind,

and

very

slowly

it

combined

with

the

mist

and

moisture

of

the

air,

and

sank

to

the

earth

in

the

form

of

dust.

Save

that

an

unknown

element

giving

a

group

of

four

lines

in

the

blue

of

the

spectrum

is

concerned,

we

are

still

entirely

ignorant

of

the

nature

of

this

substance.

Once

the

tumultuous

upheaval

of

its

dispersion

was

over,

the

black

smoke

clung

so

closely

to

the

ground,

even

before

its

precipitation,

that

fifty

feet

up

in

the

air,

on

the

roofs

and

upper

stories

of

high

houses

and

on

great

trees,

there

was

a

chance

of

escaping

its

poison

altogether,

as

was

proved

even

that

night

at

Street

Cobham

and

Ditton.

The

man

who

escaped

at

the

former

place

tells

a

wonderful

story

of

the

strangeness

of

its

coiling

flow,

and

how

he

looked

down

from

the

church

spire

and

saw

the

houses

of

the

village

rising

like

ghosts

out

of

its

inky

nothingness.

For

a

day

and

a

half

he

remained

there,

weary,

starving

and

sun-scorched,

the

earth

under

the

blue

sky

and

against

the

prospect

of

the

distant

hills

a

velvet-black

expanse,

with

red

roofs,

green

trees,

and,

later,

black-veiled

shrubs

and

gates,

barns,

outhouses,

and

walls,

rising

here

and

there

into

the

sunlight.

But

that

was

at

Street

Cobham,

where

the

black

vapour

was

allowed

to

remain

until

it

sank

of

its

own

accord

into

the

ground.

As

a

rule

the

Martians,

when

it

had

served

its

purpose,

cleared

the

air

of

it

again

by

wading

into

it

and

directing

a

jet

of

steam

upon

it.

This

they

did

with

the

vapour

banks

near

us,

as

we

saw

in

the

starlight

from

the

window

of

a

deserted

house

at

Upper

Halliford,

whither

we

had

returned.

From

there

we

could

see

the

searchlights

on

Richmond

Hill

and

Kingston

Hill

going

to

and

fro,

and

about

eleven

the

windows

rattled,

and

we

heard

the

sound

of

the

huge

siege

guns

that

had

been

put

in

position

there.

These

continued

intermittently

for

the

space

of

a

quarter

of

an

hour,

sending

chance

shots

at

the

invisible

Martians

at

Hampton

and

Ditton,

and

then

the

pale

beams

of

the

electric

light

vanished,

and

were

replaced

by

a

bright

red

glow.

Then

the

fourth

cylinder

fell—a

brilliant

green

meteor—as

I

learned

afterwards,

in

Bushey

Park.

Before

the

guns

on

the

Richmond

and

Kingston

line

of

hills

began,

there

was

a

fitful

cannonade

far

away

in

the

southwest,

due,

I

believe,

to

guns

being

fired

haphazard

before

the

black

vapour

could

overwhelm

the

gunners.

So,

setting

about

it

as

methodically

as

men

might

smoke

out

a

wasps’

nest,

the

Martians

spread

this

strange

stifling

vapour

over

the

Londonward

country.

The

horns

of

the

crescent

slowly

moved

apart,

until

at

last

they

formed

a

line

from

Hanwell

to

Coombe

and

Malden.

All

night

through

their

destructive

tubes

advanced.

Never

once,

after

the

Martian

at

St.

George’s

Hill

was

brought

down,

did

they

give

the

artillery

the

ghost

of

a

chance

against

them.

Wherever

there

was

a

possibility

of

guns

being

laid

for

them

unseen,

a

fresh

canister

of

the

black

vapour

was

discharged,

and

where

the

guns

were

openly

displayed

the

Heat-Ray

was

brought

to

bear.

By

midnight

the

blazing

trees

along

the

slopes

of

Richmond

Park

and

the

glare

of

Kingston

Hill

threw

their

light

upon

a

network

of

black

smoke,

blotting

out

the

whole

valley

of

the

Thames

and

extending

as

far

as

the

eye

could

reach.

And

through

this

two

Martians

slowly

waded,

and

turned

their

hissing

steam

jets

this

way

and

that.

They

were

sparing

of

the

Heat-Ray

that

night,

either

because

they

had

but

a

limited

supply

of

material

for

its

production

or

because

they

did

not

wish

to

destroy

the

country

but

only

to

crush

and

overawe

the

opposition

they

had

aroused.

In

the

latter

aim

they

certainly

succeeded.

Sunday

night

was

the

end

of

the

organised

opposition

to

their

movements.

After

that

no

body

of

men

would

stand

against

them,

so

hopeless

was

the

enterprise.

Even

the

crews

of

the

torpedo-boats

and

destroyers

that

had

brought

their

quick-firers

up

the

Thames

refused

to

stop,

mutinied,

and

went

down

again.

The

only

offensive

operation

men

ventured

upon

after

that

night

was

the

preparation

of

mines

and

pitfalls,

and

even

in

that

their

energies

were

frantic

and

spasmodic.

One

has

to

imagine,

as

well

as

one

may,

the

fate

of

those

batteries

towards

Esher,

waiting

so

tensely

in

the

twilight.

Survivors

there

were

none.

One

may

picture

the

orderly

expectation,

the

officers

alert

and

watchful,

the

gunners

ready,

the

ammunition

piled

to

hand,

the

limber

gunners

with

their

horses

and

waggons,

the

groups

of

civilian

spectators

standing

as

near

as

they

were

permitted,

the

evening

stillness,

the

ambulances

and

hospital

tents

with

the

burned

and

wounded

from

Weybridge;

then

the

dull

resonance

of

the

shots

the

Martians

fired,

and

the

clumsy

projectile

whirling

over

the

trees

and

houses

and

smashing

amid

the

neighbouring

fields.

One

may

picture,

too,

the

sudden

shifting

of

the

attention,

the

swiftly

spreading

coils

and

bellyings

of

that

blackness

advancing

headlong,

towering

heavenward,

turning

the

twilight

to

a

palpable

darkness,

a

strange

and

horrible

antagonist

of

vapour

striding

upon

its

victims,

men

and

horses

near

it

seen

dimly,

running,

shrieking,

falling

headlong,

shouts

of

dismay,

the

guns

suddenly

abandoned,

men

choking

and

writhing

on

the

ground,

and

the

swift

broadening-out

of

the

opaque

cone

of

smoke.

And

then

night

and

extinction—nothing

but

a

silent

mass

of

impenetrable

vapour

hiding

its

dead.

Before

dawn

the

black

vapour

was

pouring

through

the

streets

of

Richmond,

and

the

disintegrating

organism

of

government

was,

with

a

last

expiring

effort,

rousing

the

population

of

London

to

the

necessity

of

flight.

XVI.

THE

EXODUS

FROM

LONDON.

So

you

understand

the

roaring

wave

of

fear

that

swept

through

the

greatest

city

in

the

world

just

as

Monday

was

dawning—the

stream

of

flight

rising

swiftly

to

a

torrent,

lashing

in

a

foaming

tumult

round

the

railway

stations,

banked

up

into

a

horrible

struggle

about

the

shipping

in

the

Thames,

and

hurrying

by

every

available

channel

northward

and

eastward.

By

ten

o’clock

the

police

organisation,

and

by

midday

even

the

railway

organisations,

were

losing

coherency,

losing

shape

and

efficiency,

guttering,

softening,

running

at

last

in

that

swift

liquefaction

of

the

social

body.

All

the

railway

lines

north

of

the

Thames

and

the

South-Eastern

people

at

Cannon

Street

had

been

warned

by

midnight

on

Sunday,

and

trains

were

being

filled.

People

were

fighting

savagely

for

standing-room

in

the

carriages

even

at

two

o’clock.

By

three,

people

were

being

trampled

and

crushed

even

in

Bishopsgate

Street,

a

couple

of

hundred

yards

or

more

from

Liverpool

Street

station;

revolvers

were

fired,

people

stabbed,

and

the

policemen

who

had

been

sent

to

direct

the

traffic,

exhausted

and

infuriated,

were

breaking

the

heads

of

the

people

they

were

called

out

to

protect.

And

as

the

day

advanced

and

the

engine

drivers

and

stokers

refused

to

return

to

London,

the

pressure

of

the

flight

drove

the

people

in

an

ever-thickening

multitude

away

from

the

stations

and

along

the

northward-running

roads.

By

midday

a

Martian

had

been

seen

at

Barnes,

and

a

cloud

of

slowly

sinking

black

vapour

drove

along

the

Thames

and

across

the

flats

of

Lambeth,

cutting

off

all

escape

over

the

bridges

in

its

sluggish

advance.

Another

bank

drove

over

Ealing,

and

surrounded

a

little

island

of

survivors

on

Castle

Hill,

alive,

but

unable

to

escape.

After

a

fruitless

struggle

to

get

aboard

a

North-Western

train

at

Chalk

Farm—the

engines

of

the

trains

that

had

loaded

in

the

goods

yard

there

ploughed

through

shrieking

people,

and

a

dozen

stalwart

men

fought

to

keep

the

crowd

from

crushing

the

driver

against

his

furnace—my

brother

emerged

upon

the

Chalk

Farm

road,

dodged

across

through

a

hurrying

swarm

of

vehicles,

and

had

the

luck

to

be

foremost

in

the

sack

of

a

cycle

shop.

The

front

tire

of

the

machine

he

got

was

punctured

in

dragging

it

through

the

window,

but

he

got

up

and

off,

notwithstanding,

with

no

further

injury

than

a

cut

wrist.

The

steep

foot

of

Haverstock

Hill

was

impassable

owing

to

several

overturned

horses,

and

my

brother

struck

into

Belsize

Road.

So

he

got

out

of

the

fury

of

the

panic,

and,

skirting

the

Edgware

Road,

reached

Edgware

about

seven,

fasting

and

wearied,

but

well

ahead

of

the

crowd.

Along

the

road

people

were

standing

in

the

roadway,

curious,

wondering.

He

was

passed

by

a

number

of

cyclists,

some

horsemen,

and

two

motor

cars.

A

mile

from

Edgware

the

rim

of

the

wheel

broke,

and

the

machine

became

unridable.

He

left

it

by

the

roadside

and

trudged

through

the

village.

There

were

shops

half

opened

in

the

main

street

of

the

place,

and

people

crowded

on

the

pavement

and

in

the

doorways

and

windows,

staring

astonished

at

this

extraordinary

procession

of

fugitives

that

was

beginning.

He

succeeded

in

getting

some

food

at

an

inn.

For

a

time

he

remained

in

Edgware

not

knowing

what

next

to

do.

The

flying

people

increased

in

number.

Many

of

them,

like

my

brother,

seemed

inclined

to

loiter

in

the

place.

There

was

no

fresh

news

of

the

invaders

from

Mars.

At

that

time

the

road

was

crowded,

but

as

yet

far

from

congested.

Most

of

the

fugitives

at

that

hour

were

mounted

on

cycles,

but

there

were

soon

motor

cars,

hansom

cabs,

and

carriages

hurrying

along,

and

the

dust

hung

in

heavy

clouds

along

the

road

to

St.

Albans.

It

was

perhaps

a

vague

idea

of

making

his

way

to

Chelmsford,

where

some

friends

of

his

lived,

that

at

last

induced

my

brother

to

strike

into

a

quiet

lane

running

eastward.

Presently

he

came

upon

a

stile,

and,

crossing

it,

followed

a

footpath

northeastward.

He

passed

near

several

farmhouses

and

some

little

places

whose

names

he

did

not

learn.

He

saw

few

fugitives

until,

in

a

grass

lane

towards

High

Barnet,

he

happened

upon

two

ladies

who

became

his

fellow

travellers.

He

came

upon

them

just

in

time

to

save

them.

He

heard

their

screams,

and,

hurrying

round

the

corner,

saw

a

couple

of

men

struggling

to

drag

them

out

of

the

little

pony-chaise

in

which

they

had

been

driving,

while

a

third

with

difficulty

held

the

frightened

pony’s

head.

One

of

the

ladies,

a

short

woman

dressed

in

white,

was

simply

screaming;

the

other,

a

dark,

slender

figure,

slashed

at

the

man

who

gripped

her

arm

with

a

whip

she

held

in

her

disengaged

hand.

My

brother

immediately

grasped

the

situation,

shouted,

and

hurried

towards

the

struggle.

One

of

the

men

desisted

and

turned

towards

him,

and

my

brother,

realising

from

his

antagonist’s

face

that

a

fight

was

unavoidable,

and

being

an

expert

boxer,

went

into

him

forthwith

and

sent

him

down

against

the

wheel

of

the

chaise.

It

was

no

time

for

pugilistic

chivalry

and

my

brother

laid

him

quiet

with

a

kick,

and

gripped

the

collar

of

the

man

who

pulled

at

the

slender

lady’s

arm.

He

heard

the

clatter

of

hoofs,

the

whip

stung

across

his

face,

a

third

antagonist

struck

him

between

the

eyes,

and

the

man

he

held

wrenched

himself

free

and

made

off

down

the

lane

in

the

direction

from

which

he

had

come.

Partly

stunned,

he

found

himself

facing

the

man

who

had

held

the

horse’s

head,

and

became

aware

of

the

chaise

receding

from

him

down

the

lane,

swaying

from

side

to

side,

and

with

the

women

in

it

looking

back.

The

man

before

him,

a

burly

rough,

tried

to

close,

and

he

stopped

him

with

a

blow

in

the

face.

Then,

realising

that

he

was

deserted,

he

dodged

round

and

made

off

down

the

lane

after

the

chaise,

with

the

sturdy

man

close

behind

him,

and

the

fugitive,

who

had

turned

now,

following

remotely.

Suddenly

he

stumbled

and

fell;

his

immediate

pursuer

went

headlong,

and

he

rose

to

his

feet

to

find

himself

with

a

couple

of

antagonists

again.

He

would

have

had

little

chance

against

them

had

not

the

slender

lady

very

pluckily

pulled

up

and

returned

to

his

help.

It

seems

she

had

had

a

revolver

all

this

time,

but

it

had

been

under

the

seat

when

she

and

her

companion

were

attacked.

She

fired

at

six

yards’

distance,

narrowly

missing

my

brother.

The

less

courageous

of

the

robbers

made

off,

and

his

companion

followed

him,

cursing

his

cowardice.

They

both

stopped

in

sight

down

the

lane,

where

the

third

man

lay

insensible.

“Take

this!”

said

the

slender

lady,

and

she

gave

my

brother

her

revolver.

“Go

back

to

the

chaise,”

said

my

brother,

wiping

the

blood

from

his

split

lip.

She

turned

without

a

word—they

were

both

panting—and

they

went

back

to

where

the

lady

in

white

struggled

to

hold

back

the

frightened

pony.

The

robbers

had

evidently

had

enough

of

it.

When

my

brother

looked

again

they

were

retreating.

“I’ll

sit

here,”

said

my

brother,

“if

I

may”;

and

he

got

upon

the

empty

front

seat.

The

lady

looked

over

her

shoulder.

“Give

me

the

reins,”

she

said,

and

laid

the

whip

along

the

pony’s

side.

In

another

moment

a

bend

in

the

road

hid

the

three

men

from

my

brother’s

eyes.

So,

quite

unexpectedly,

my

brother

found

himself,

panting,

with

a

cut

mouth,

a

bruised

jaw,

and

bloodstained

knuckles,

driving

along

an

unknown

lane

with

these

two

women.

He

learned

they

were

the

wife

and

the

younger

sister

of

a

surgeon

living

at

Stanmore,

who

had

come

in

the

small

hours

from

a

dangerous

case

at

Pinner,

and

heard

at

some

railway

station

on

his

way

of

the

Martian

advance.

He

had

hurried

home,

roused

the

women—their

servant

had

left

them

two

days

before—packed

some

provisions,

put

his

revolver

under

the

seat—luckily

for

my

brother—and

told

them

to

drive

on

to

Edgware,

with

the

idea

of

getting

a

train

there.

He

stopped

behind

to

tell

the

neighbours.

He

would

overtake

them,

he

said,

at

about

half

past

four

in

the

morning,

and

now

it

was

nearly

nine

and

they

had

seen

nothing

of

him.

They

could

not

stop

in

Edgware

because

of

the

growing

traffic

through

the

place,

and

so

they

had

come

into

this

side

lane.

That

was

the

story

they

told

my

brother

in

fragments

when

presently

they

stopped

again,

nearer

to

New

Barnet.

He

promised

to

stay

with

them,

at

least

until

they

could

determine

what

to

do,

or

until

the

missing

man

arrived,

and

professed

to

be

an

expert

shot

with

the

revolver—a

weapon

strange

to

him—in

order

to

give

them

confidence.

They

made

a

sort

of

encampment

by

the

wayside,

and

the

pony

became

happy

in

the

hedge.

He

told

them

of

his

own

escape

out

of

London,

and

all

that

he

knew

of

these

Martians

and

their

ways.

The

sun

crept

higher

in

the

sky,

and

after

a

time

their

talk

died

out

and

gave

place

to

an

uneasy

state

of

anticipation.

Several

wayfarers

came

along

the

lane,

and

of

these

my

brother

gathered

such

news

as

he

could.

Every

broken

answer

he

had

deepened

his

impression

of

the

great

disaster

that

had

come

on

humanity,

deepened

his

persuasion

of

the

immediate

necessity

for

prosecuting

this

flight.

He

urged

the

matter

upon

them.

“We

have

money,”

said

the

slender

woman,

and

hesitated.

Her

eyes

met

my

brother’s,

and

her

hesitation

ended.

“So

have

I,”

said

my

brother.

She

explained

that

they

had

as

much

as

thirty

pounds

in

gold,

besides

a

five-pound

note,

and

suggested

that

with

that

they

might

get

upon

a

train

at

St.

Albans

or

New

Barnet.

My

brother

thought

that

was

hopeless,

seeing

the

fury

of

the

Londoners

to

crowd

upon

the

trains,

and

broached

his

own

idea

of

striking

across

Essex

towards

Harwich

and

thence

escaping

from

the

country

altogether.

Mrs.

Elphinstone—that

was

the

name

of

the

woman

in

white—would

listen

to

no

reasoning,

and

kept

calling

upon

“George”;

but

her

sister-in-law

was

astonishingly

quiet

and

deliberate,

and

at

last

agreed

to

my

brother’s

suggestion.

So,

designing

to

cross

the

Great

North

Road,

they

went

on

towards

Barnet,

my

brother

leading

the

pony

to

save

it

as

much

as

possible.

As

the

sun

crept

up

the

sky

the

day

became

excessively

hot,

and

under

foot

a

thick,

whitish

sand

grew

burning

and

blinding,

so

that

they

travelled

only

very

slowly.

The

hedges

were

grey

with

dust.

And

as

they

advanced

towards

Barnet

a

tumultuous

murmuring

grew

stronger.

They

began

to

meet

more

people.

For

the

most

part

these

were

staring

before

them,

murmuring

indistinct

questions,

jaded,

haggard,

unclean.

One

man

in

evening

dress

passed

them

on

foot,

his

eyes

on

the

ground.

They

heard

his

voice,

and,

looking

back

at

him,

saw

one

hand

clutched

in

his

hair

and

the

other

beating

invisible

things.

His

paroxysm

of

rage

over,

he

went

on

his

way

without

once

looking

back.

As

my

brother’s

party

went

on

towards

the

crossroads

to

the

south

of

Barnet

they

saw

a

woman

approaching

the

road

across

some

fields

on

their

left,

carrying

a

child

and

with

two

other

children;

and

then

passed

a

man

in

dirty

black,

with

a

thick

stick

in

one

hand

and

a

small

portmanteau

in

the

other.

Then

round

the

corner

of

the

lane,

from

between

the

villas

that

guarded

it

at

its

confluence

with

the

high

road,

came

a

little

cart

drawn

by

a

sweating

black

pony

and

driven

by

a

sallow

youth

in

a

bowler

hat,

grey

with

dust.

There

were

three

girls,

East

End

factory

girls,

and

a

couple

of

little

children

crowded

in

the

cart.

“This’ll

tike

us

rahnd

Edgware?”

asked

the

driver,

wild-eyed,

white-faced;

and

when

my

brother

told

him

it

would

if

he

turned

to

the

left,

he

whipped

up

at

once

without

the

formality

of

thanks.

My

brother

noticed

a

pale

grey

smoke

or

haze

rising

among

the

houses

in

front

of

them,

and

veiling

the

white

façade

of

a

terrace

beyond

the

road

that

appeared

between

the

backs

of

the

villas.

Mrs.

Elphinstone

suddenly

cried

out

at

a

number

of

tongues

of

smoky

red

flame

leaping

up

above

the

houses

in

front

of

them

against

the

hot,

blue

sky.

The

tumultuous

noise

resolved

itself

now

into

the

disorderly

mingling

of

many

voices,

the

gride

of

many

wheels,

the

creaking

of

waggons,

and

the

staccato

of

hoofs.

The

lane

came

round

sharply

not

fifty

yards

from

the

crossroads.

“Good

heavens!”

cried

Mrs.

Elphinstone.

“What

is

this

you

are

driving

us

into?”

My

brother

stopped.

For

the

main

road

was

a

boiling

stream

of

people,

a

torrent

of

human

beings

rushing

northward,

one

pressing

on

another.

A

great

bank

of

dust,

white

and

luminous

in

the

blaze

of

the

sun,

made

everything

within

twenty

feet

of

the

ground

grey

and

indistinct

and

was

perpetually

renewed

by

the

hurrying

feet

of

a

dense

crowd

of

horses

and

of

men

and

women

on

foot,

and

by

the

wheels

of

vehicles

of

every

description.

“Way!”

my

brother

heard

voices

crying.

“Make

way!”

It

was

like

riding

into

the

smoke

of

a

fire

to

approach

the

meeting

point

of

the

lane

and

road;

the

crowd

roared

like

a

fire,

and

the

dust

was

hot

and

pungent.

And,

indeed,

a

little

way

up

the

road

a

villa

was

burning

and

sending

rolling

masses

of

black

smoke

across

the

road

to

add

to

the

confusion.

Two

men

came

past

them.

Then

a

dirty

woman,

carrying

a

heavy

bundle

and

weeping.

A

lost

retriever

dog,

with

hanging

tongue,

circled

dubiously

round

them,

scared

and

wretched,

and

fled

at

my

brother’s

threat.

So

much

as

they

could

see

of

the

road

Londonward

between

the

houses

to

the

right

was

a

tumultuous

stream

of

dirty,

hurrying

people,

pent

in

between

the

villas

on

either

side;

the

black

heads,

the

crowded

forms,

grew

into

distinctness

as

they

rushed

towards

the

corner,

hurried

past,

and

merged

their

individuality

again

in

a

receding

multitude

that

was

swallowed

up

at

last

in

a

cloud

of

dust.

“Go

on!

Go

on!”

cried

the

voices.

“Way!

Way!”

One

man’s

hands

pressed

on

the

back

of

another.

My

brother

stood

at

the

pony’s

head.

Irresistibly

attracted,

he

advanced

slowly,

pace

by

pace,

down

the

lane.

Edgware

had

been

a

scene

of

confusion,

Chalk

Farm

a

riotous

tumult,

but

this

was

a

whole

population

in

movement.

It

is

hard

to

imagine

that

host.

It

had

no

character

of

its

own.

The

figures

poured

out

past

the

corner,

and

receded

with

their

backs

to

the

group

in

the

lane.

Along

the

margin

came

those

who

were

on

foot

threatened

by

the

wheels,

stumbling

in

the

ditches,

blundering

into

one

another.

The

carts

and

carriages

crowded

close

upon

one

another,

making

little

way

for

those

swifter

and

more

impatient

vehicles

that

darted

forward

every

now

and

then

when

an

opportunity

showed

itself

of

doing

so,

sending

the

people

scattering

against

the

fences

and

gates

of

the

villas.

“Push

on!”

was

the

cry.

“Push

on!

They

are

coming!”

In

one

cart

stood

a

blind

man

in

the

uniform

of

the

Salvation

Army,

gesticulating

with

his

crooked

fingers

and

bawling,

“Eternity!

Eternity!”

His

voice

was

hoarse

and

very

loud

so

that

my

brother

could

hear

him

long

after

he

was

lost

to

sight

in

the

dust.

Some

of

the

people

who

crowded

in

the

carts

whipped

stupidly

at

their

horses

and

quarrelled

with

other

drivers;

some

sat

motionless,

staring

at

nothing

with

miserable

eyes;

some

gnawed

their

hands

with

thirst,

or

lay

prostrate

in

the

bottoms

of

their

conveyances.

The

horses’

bits

were

covered

with

foam,

their

eyes

bloodshot.

There

were

cabs,

carriages,

shop-carts,

waggons,

beyond

counting;

a

mail

cart,

a

road-cleaner’s

cart

marked

“Vestry

of

St.

Pancras,”

a

huge

timber

waggon

crowded

with

roughs.

A

brewer’s

dray

rumbled

by

with

its

two

near

wheels

splashed

with

fresh

blood.

“Clear

the

way!”

cried

the

voices.

“Clear

the

way!”

“Eter-nity!

Eter-nity!”

came

echoing

down

the

road.

There

were

sad,

haggard

women

tramping

by,

well

dressed,

with

children

that

cried

and

stumbled,

their

dainty

clothes

smothered

in

dust,

their

weary

faces

smeared

with

tears.

With

many

of

these

came

men,

sometimes

helpful,

sometimes

lowering

and

savage.

Fighting

side

by

side

with

them

pushed

some

weary

street

outcast

in

faded

black

rags,

wide-eyed,

loud-voiced,

and

foul-mouthed.

There

were

sturdy

workmen

thrusting

their

way

along,

wretched,

unkempt

men,

clothed

like

clerks

or

shopmen,

struggling

spasmodically;

a

wounded

soldier

my

brother

noticed,

men

dressed

in

the

clothes

of

railway

porters,

one

wretched

creature

in

a

nightshirt

with

a

coat

thrown

over

it.

But

varied

as

its

composition

was,

certain

things

all

that

host

had

in

common.

There

were

fear

and

pain

on

their

faces,

and

fear

behind

them.

A

tumult

up

the

road,

a

quarrel

for

a

place

in

a

waggon,

sent

the

whole

host

of

them

quickening

their

pace;

even

a

man

so

scared

and

broken

that

his

knees

bent

under

him

was

galvanised

for

a

moment

into

renewed

activity.

The

heat

and

dust

had

already

been

at

work

upon

this

multitude.

Their

skins

were

dry,

their

lips

black

and

cracked.

They

were

all

thirsty,

weary,

and

footsore.

And

amid

the

various

cries

one

heard

disputes,

reproaches,

groans

of

weariness

and

fatigue;

the

voices

of

most

of

them

were

hoarse

and

weak.

Through

it

all

ran

a

refrain:

“Way!

Way!

The

Martians

are

coming!”

Few

stopped

and

came

aside

from

that

flood.

The

lane

opened

slantingly

into

the

main

road

with

a

narrow

opening,

and

had

a

delusive

appearance

of

coming

from

the

direction

of

London.

Yet

a

kind

of

eddy

of

people

drove

into

its

mouth;

weaklings

elbowed

out

of

the

stream,

who

for

the

most

part

rested

but

a

moment

before

plunging

into

it

again.

A

little

way

down

the

lane,

with

two

friends

bending

over

him,

lay

a

man

with

a

bare

leg,

wrapped

about

with

bloody

rags.

He

was

a

lucky

man

to

have

friends.

A

little

old

man,

with

a

grey

military

moustache

and

a

filthy

black

frock

coat,

limped

out

and

sat

down

beside

the

trap,

removed

his

boot—his

sock

was

blood-stained—shook

out

a

pebble,

and

hobbled

on

again;

and

then

a

little

girl

of

eight

or

nine,

all

alone,

threw

herself

under

the

hedge

close

by

my

brother,

weeping.

“I

can’t

go

on!

I

can’t

go

on!”

My

brother

woke

from

his

torpor

of

astonishment

and

lifted

her

up,

speaking

gently

to

her,

and

carried

her

to

Miss

Elphinstone.

So

soon

as

my

brother

touched

her

she

became

quite

still,

as

if

frightened.

“Ellen!”

shrieked

a

woman

in

the

crowd,

with

tears

in

her

voice—“Ellen!”

And

the

child

suddenly

darted

away

from

my

brother,

crying

“Mother!”

“They

are

coming,”

said

a

man

on

horseback,

riding

past

along

the

lane.

“Out

of

the

way,

there!”

bawled

a

coachman,

towering

high;

and

my

brother

saw

a

closed

carriage

turning

into

the

lane.

The

people

crushed

back

on

one

another

to

avoid

the

horse.

My

brother

pushed

the

pony

and

chaise

back

into

the

hedge,

and

the

man

drove

by

and

stopped

at

the

turn

of

the

way.

It

was

a

carriage,

with

a

pole

for

a

pair

of

horses,

but

only

one

was

in

the

traces.

My

brother

saw

dimly

through

the

dust

that

two

men

lifted

out

something

on

a

white

stretcher

and

put

it

gently

on

the

grass

beneath

the

privet

hedge.

One

of

the

men

came

running

to

my

brother.

“Where

is

there

any

water?”

he

said.

“He

is

dying

fast,

and

very

thirsty.

It

is

Lord

Garrick.”

“Lord

Garrick!”

said

my

brother;

“the

Chief

Justice?”

“The

water?”

he

said.

“There

may

be

a

tap,”

said

my

brother,

“in

some

of

the

houses.

We

have

no

water.

I

dare

not

leave

my

people.”

The

man

pushed

against

the

crowd

towards

the

gate

of

the

corner

house.

“Go

on!”

said

the

people,

thrusting

at

him.

“They

are

coming!

Go

on!”

Then

my

brother’s

attention

was

distracted

by

a

bearded,

eagle-faced

man

lugging

a

small

handbag,

which

split

even

as

my

brother’s

eyes

rested

on

it

and

disgorged

a

mass

of

sovereigns

that

seemed

to

break

up

into

separate

coins

as

it

struck

the

ground.

They

rolled

hither

and

thither

among

the

struggling

feet

of

men

and

horses.

The

man

stopped

and

looked

stupidly

at

the

heap,

and

the

shaft

of

a

cab

struck

his

shoulder

and

sent

him

reeling.

He

gave

a

shriek

and

dodged

back,

and

a

cartwheel

shaved

him

narrowly.

“Way!”

cried

the

men

all

about

him.

“Make

way!”

So

soon

as

the

cab

had

passed,

he

flung

himself,

with

both

hands

open,

upon

the

heap

of

coins,

and

began

thrusting

handfuls

in

his

pocket.

A

horse

rose

close

upon

him,

and

in

another

moment,

half

rising,

he

had

been

borne

down

under

the

horse’s

hoofs.

“Stop!”

screamed

my

brother,

and

pushing

a

woman

out

of

his

way,

tried

to

clutch

the

bit

of

the

horse.

Before

he

could

get

to

it,

he

heard

a

scream

under

the

wheels,

and

saw

through

the

dust

the

rim

passing

over

the

poor

wretch’s

back.

The

driver

of

the

cart

slashed

his

whip

at

my

brother,

who

ran

round

behind

the

cart.

The

multitudinous

shouting

confused

his

ears.

The

man

was

writhing

in

the

dust

among

his

scattered

money,

unable

to

rise,

for

the

wheel

had

broken

his

back,

and

his

lower

limbs

lay

limp

and

dead.

My

brother

stood

up

and

yelled

at

the

next

driver,

and

a

man

on

a

black

horse

came

to

his

assistance.

“Get

him

out

of

the

road,”

said

he;

and,

clutching

the

man’s

collar

with

his

free

hand,

my

brother

lugged

him

sideways.

But

he

still

clutched

after

his

money,

and

regarded

my

brother

fiercely,

hammering

at

his

arm

with

a

handful

of

gold.

“Go

on!

Go

on!”

shouted

angry

voices

behind.

“Way!

Way!”

There

was

a

smash

as

the

pole

of

a

carriage

crashed

into

the

cart

that

the

man

on

horseback

stopped.

My

brother

looked

up,

and

the

man

with

the

gold

twisted

his

head

round

and

bit

the

wrist

that

held

his

collar.

There

was

a

concussion,

and

the

black

horse

came

staggering

sideways,

and

the

carthorse

pushed

beside

it.

A

hoof

missed

my

brother’s

foot

by

a

hair’s

breadth.

He

released

his

grip

on

the

fallen

man

and

jumped

back.

He

saw

anger

change

to

terror

on

the

face

of

the

poor

wretch

on

the

ground,

and

in

a

moment

he

was

hidden

and

my

brother

was

borne

backward

and

carried

past

the

entrance

of

the

lane,

and

had

to

fight

hard

in

the

torrent

to

recover

it.

He

saw

Miss

Elphinstone

covering

her

eyes,

and

a

little

child,

with

all

a

child’s

want

of

sympathetic

imagination,

staring

with

dilated

eyes

at

a

dusty

something

that

lay

black

and

still,

ground

and

crushed

under

the

rolling

wheels.

“Let

us

go

back!”

he

shouted,

and

began

turning

the

pony

round.

“We

cannot

cross

this—hell,”

he

said

and

they

went

back

a

hundred

yards

the

way

they

had

come,

until

the

fighting

crowd

was

hidden.

As

they

passed

the

bend

in

the

lane

my

brother

saw

the

face

of

the

dying

man

in

the

ditch

under

the

privet,

deadly

white

and

drawn,

and

shining

with

perspiration.

The

two

women

sat

silent,

crouching

in

their

seat

and

shivering.

Then

beyond

the

bend

my

brother

stopped

again.

Miss

Elphinstone

was

white

and

pale,

and

her

sister-in-law

sat

weeping,

too

wretched

even

to

call

upon

“George.”

My

brother

was

horrified

and

perplexed.

So

soon

as

they

had

retreated

he

realised

how

urgent

and

unavoidable

it

was

to

attempt

this

crossing.

He

turned

to

Miss

Elphinstone,

suddenly

resolute.

“We

must

go

that

way,”

he

said,

and

led

the

pony

round

again.

For

the

second

time

that

day

this

girl

proved

her

quality.

To

force

their

way

into

the

torrent

of

people,

my

brother

plunged

into

the

traffic

and

held

back

a

cab

horse,

while

she

drove

the

pony

across

its

head.

A

waggon

locked

wheels

for

a

moment

and

ripped

a

long

splinter

from

the

chaise.

In

another

moment

they

were

caught

and

swept

forward

by

the

stream.

My

brother,

with

the

cabman’s

whip

marks

red

across

his

face

and

hands,

scrambled

into

the

chaise

and

took

the

reins

from

her.

“Point

the

revolver

at

the

man

behind,”

he

said,

giving

it

to

her,

“if

he

presses

us

too

hard.

No!—point

it

at

his

horse.”

Then

he

began

to

look

out

for

a

chance

of

edging

to

the

right

across

the

road.

But

once

in

the

stream

he

seemed

to

lose

volition,

to

become

a

part

of

that

dusty

rout.

They

swept

through

Chipping

Barnet

with

the

torrent;

they

were

nearly

a

mile

beyond

the

centre

of

the

town

before

they

had

fought

across

to

the

opposite

side

of

the

way.

It

was

din

and

confusion

indescribable;

but

in

and

beyond

the

town

the

road

forks

repeatedly,

and

this

to

some

extent

relieved

the

stress.

They

struck

eastward

through

Hadley,

and

there

on

either

side

of

the

road,

and

at

another

place

farther

on

they

came

upon

a

great

multitude

of

people

drinking

at

the

stream,

some

fighting

to

come

at

the

water.

And

farther

on,

from

a

lull

near

East

Barnet,

they

saw

two

trains

running

slowly

one

after

the

other

without

signal

or

order—trains

swarming

with

people,

with

men

even

among

the

coals

behind

the

engines—going

northward

along

the

Great

Northern

Railway.

My

brother

supposes

they

must

have

filled

outside

London,

for

at

that

time

the

furious

terror

of

the

people

had

rendered

the

central

termini

impossible.

Near

this

place

they

halted

for

the

rest

of

the

afternoon,

for

the

violence

of

the

day

had

already

utterly

exhausted

all

three

of

them.

They

began

to

suffer

the

beginnings

of

hunger;

the

night

was

cold,

and

none

of

them

dared

to

sleep.

And

in

the

evening

many

people

came

hurrying

along

the

road

nearby

their

stopping

place,

fleeing

from

unknown

dangers

before

them,

and

going

in

the

direction

from

which

my

brother

had

come.

XVII.

THE

“THUNDER

CHILD”.

Had

the

Martians

aimed

only

at

destruction,

they

might

on

Monday

have

annihilated

the

entire

population

of

London,

as

it

spread

itself

slowly

through

the

home

counties.

Not

only

along

the

road

through

Barnet,

but

also

through

Edgware

and

Waltham

Abbey,

and

along

the

roads

eastward

to

Southend

and

Shoeburyness,

and

south

of

the

Thames

to

Deal

and

Broadstairs,

poured

the

same

frantic

rout.

If

one

could

have

hung

that

June

morning

in

a

balloon

in

the

blazing

blue

above

London

every

northward

and

eastward

road

running

out

of

the

tangled

maze

of

streets

would

have

seemed

stippled

black

with

the

streaming

fugitives,

each

dot

a

human

agony

of

terror

and

physical

distress.

I

have

set

forth

at

length

in

the

last

chapter

my

brother’s

account

of

the

road

through

Chipping

Barnet,

in

order

that

my

readers

may

realise

how

that

swarming

of

black

dots

appeared

to

one

of

those

concerned.

Never

before

in

the

history

of

the

world

had

such

a

mass

of

human

beings

moved

and

suffered

together.

The

legendary

hosts

of

Goths

and

Huns,

the

hugest

armies

Asia

has

ever

seen,

would

have

been

but

a

drop

in

that

current.

And

this

was

no

disciplined

march;

it

was

a

stampede—a

stampede

gigantic

and

terrible—without

order

and

without

a

goal,

six

million

people

unarmed

and

unprovisioned,

driving

headlong.

It

was

the

beginning

of

the

rout

of

civilisation,

of

the

massacre

of

mankind.

Directly

below

him

the

balloonist

would

have

seen

the

network

of

streets

far

and

wide,

houses,

churches,

squares,

crescents,

gardens—already

derelict—spread

out

like

a

huge

map,

and

in

the

southward

blotted.

Over

Ealing,

Richmond,

Wimbledon,

it

would

have

seemed

as

if

some

monstrous

pen

had

flung

ink

upon

the

chart.

Steadily,

incessantly,

each

black

splash

grew

and

spread,

shooting

out

ramifications

this

way

and

that,

now

banking

itself

against

rising

ground,

now

pouring

swiftly

over

a

crest

into

a

new-found

valley,

exactly

as

a

gout

of

ink

would

spread

itself

upon

blotting

paper.

And

beyond,

over

the

blue

hills

that

rise

southward

of

the

river,

the

glittering

Martians

went

to

and

fro,

calmly

and

methodically

spreading

their

poison

cloud

over

this

patch

of

country

and

then

over

that,

laying

it

again

with

their

steam

jets

when

it

had

served

its

purpose,

and

taking

possession

of

the

conquered

country.

They

do

not

seem

to

have

aimed

at

extermination

so

much

as

at

complete

demoralisation

and

the

destruction

of

any

opposition.

They

exploded

any

stores

of

powder

they

came

upon,

cut

every

telegraph,

and

wrecked

the

railways

here

and

there.

They

were

hamstringing

mankind.

They

seemed

in

no

hurry

to

extend

the

field

of

their

operations,

and

did

not

come

beyond

the

central

part

of

London

all

that

day.

It

is

possible

that

a

very

considerable

number

of

people

in

London

stuck

to

their

houses

through

Monday

morning.

Certain

it

is

that

many

died

at

home

suffocated

by

the

Black

Smoke.

Until

about

midday

the

Pool

of

London

was

an

astonishing

scene.

Steamboats

and

shipping

of

all

sorts

lay

there,

tempted

by

the

enormous

sums

of

money

offered

by

fugitives,

and

it

is

said

that

many

who

swam

out

to

these

vessels

were

thrust

off

with

boathooks

and

drowned.

About

one

o’clock

in

the

afternoon

the

thinning

remnant

of

a

cloud

of

the

black

vapour

appeared

between

the

arches

of

Blackfriars

Bridge.

At

that

the

Pool

became

a

scene

of

mad

confusion,

fighting,

and

collision,

and

for

some

time

a

multitude

of

boats

and

barges

jammed

in

the

northern

arch

of

the

Tower

Bridge,

and

the

sailors

and

lightermen

had

to

fight

savagely

against

the

people

who

swarmed

upon

them

from

the

riverfront.

People

were

actually

clambering

down

the

piers

of

the

bridge

from

above.

When,

an

hour

later,

a

Martian

appeared

beyond

the

Clock

Tower

and

waded

down

the

river,

nothing

but

wreckage

floated

above

Limehouse.

Of

the

falling

of

the

fifth

cylinder

I

have

presently

to

tell.

The

sixth

star

fell

at

Wimbledon.

My

brother,

keeping

watch

beside

the

women

in

the

chaise

in

a

meadow,

saw

the

green

flash

of

it

far

beyond

the

hills.

On

Tuesday

the

little

party,

still

set

upon

getting

across

the

sea,

made

its

way

through

the

swarming

country

towards

Colchester.

The

news

that

the

Martians

were

now

in

possession

of

the

whole

of

London

was

confirmed.

They

had

been

seen

at

Highgate,

and

even,

it

was

said,

at

Neasden.

But

they

did

not

come

into

my

brother’s

view

until

the

morrow.

That

day

the

scattered

multitudes

began

to

realise

the

urgent

need

of

provisions.

As

they

grew

hungry

the

rights

of

property

ceased

to

be

regarded.

Farmers

were

out

to

defend

their

cattle-sheds,

granaries,

and

ripening

root

crops

with

arms

in

their

hands.

A

number

of

people

now,

like

my

brother,

had

their

faces

eastward,

and

there

were

some

desperate

souls

even

going

back

towards

London

to

get

food.

These

were

chiefly

people

from

the

northern

suburbs,

whose

knowledge

of

the

Black

Smoke

came

by

hearsay.

He

heard

that

about

half

the

members

of

the

government

had

gathered

at

Birmingham,

and

that

enormous

quantities

of

high

explosives

were

being

prepared

to

be

used

in

automatic

mines

across

the

Midland

counties.

He

was

also

told

that

the

Midland

Railway

Company

had

replaced

the

desertions

of

the

first

day’s

panic,

had

resumed

traffic,

and

was

running

northward

trains

from

St.

Albans

to

relieve

the

congestion

of

the

home

counties.

There

was

also

a

placard

in

Chipping

Ongar

announcing

that

large

stores

of

flour

were

available

in

the

northern

towns

and

that

within

twenty-four

hours

bread

would

be

distributed

among

the

starving

people

in

the

neighbourhood.

But

this

intelligence

did

not

deter

him

from

the

plan

of

escape

he

had

formed,

and

the

three

pressed

eastward

all

day,

and

heard

no

more

of

the

bread

distribution

than

this

promise.

Nor,

as

a

matter

of

fact,

did

anyone

else

hear

more

of

it.

That

night

fell

the

seventh

star,

falling

upon

Primrose

Hill.

It

fell

while

Miss

Elphinstone

was

watching,

for

she

took

that

duty

alternately

with

my

brother.

She

saw

it.

On

Wednesday

the

three

fugitives—they

had

passed

the

night

in

a

field

of

unripe

wheat—reached

Chelmsford,

and

there

a

body

of

the

inhabitants,

calling

itself

the

Committee

of

Public

Supply,

seized

the

pony

as

provisions,

and

would

give

nothing

in

exchange

for

it

but

the

promise

of

a

share

in

it

the

next

day.

Here

there

were

rumours

of

Martians

at

Epping,

and

news

of

the

destruction

of

Waltham

Abbey

Powder

Mills

in

a

vain

attempt

to

blow

up

one

of

the

invaders.

People

were

watching

for

Martians

here

from

the

church

towers.

My

brother,

very

luckily

for

him

as

it

chanced,

preferred

to

push

on

at

once

to

the

coast

rather

than

wait

for

food,

although

all

three

of

them

were

very

hungry.

By

midday

they

passed

through

Tillingham,

which,

strangely

enough,

seemed

to

be

quite

silent

and

deserted,

save

for

a

few

furtive

plunderers

hunting

for

food.

Near

Tillingham

they

suddenly

came

in

sight

of

the

sea,

and

the

most

amazing

crowd

of

shipping

of

all

sorts

that

it

is

possible

to

imagine.

For

after

the

sailors

could

no

longer

come

up

the

Thames,

they

came

on

to

the

Essex

coast,

to

Harwich

and

Walton

and

Clacton,

and

afterwards

to

Foulness

and

Shoebury,

to

bring

off

the

people.

They

lay

in

a

huge

sickle-shaped

curve

that

vanished

into

mist

at

last

towards

the

Naze.

Close

inshore

was

a

multitude

of

fishing

smacks—English,

Scotch,

French,

Dutch,

and

Swedish;

steam

launches

from

the

Thames,

yachts,

electric

boats;

and

beyond

were

ships

of

larger

burden,

a

multitude

of

filthy

colliers,

trim

merchantmen,

cattle

ships,

passenger

boats,

petroleum

tanks,

ocean

tramps,

an

old

white

transport

even,

neat

white

and

grey

liners

from

Southampton

and

Hamburg;

and

along

the

blue

coast

across

the

Blackwater

my

brother

could

make

out

dimly

a

dense

swarm

of

boats

chaffering

with

the

people

on

the

beach,

a

swarm

which

also

extended

up

the

Blackwater

almost

to

Maldon.

About

a

couple

of

miles

out

lay

an

ironclad,

very

low

in

the

water,

almost,

to

my

brother’s

perception,

like

a

water-logged

ship.

This

was

the

ram

Thunder

Child.

It

was

the

only

warship

in

sight,

but

far

away

to

the

right

over

the

smooth

surface

of

the

sea—for

that

day

there

was

a

dead

calm—lay

a

serpent

of

black

smoke

to

mark

the

next

ironclads

of

the

Channel

Fleet,

which

hovered

in

an

extended

line,

steam

up

and

ready

for

action,

across

the

Thames

estuary

during

the

course

of

the

Martian

conquest,

vigilant

and

yet

powerless

to

prevent

it.

At

the

sight

of

the

sea,

Mrs.

Elphinstone,

in

spite

of

the

assurances

of

her

sister-in-law,

gave

way

to

panic.

She

had

never

been

out

of

England

before,

she

would

rather

die

than

trust

herself

friendless

in

a

foreign

country,

and

so

forth.

She

seemed,

poor

woman,

to

imagine

that

the

French

and

the

Martians

might

prove

very

similar.

She

had

been

growing

increasingly

hysterical,

fearful,

and

depressed

during

the

two

days’

journeyings.

Her

great

idea

was

to

return

to

Stanmore.

Things

had

been

always

well

and

safe

at

Stanmore.

They

would

find

George

at

Stanmore....

It

was

with

the

greatest

difficulty

they

could

get

her

down

to

the

beach,

where

presently

my

brother

succeeded

in

attracting

the

attention

of

some

men

on

a

paddle

steamer

from

the

Thames.

They

sent

a

boat

and

drove

a

bargain

for

thirty-six

pounds

for

the

three.

The

steamer

was

going,

these

men

said,

to

Ostend.

It

was

about

two

o’clock

when

my

brother,

having

paid

their

fares

at

the

gangway,

found

himself

safely

aboard

the

steamboat

with

his

charges.

There

was

food

aboard,

albeit

at

exorbitant

prices,

and

the

three

of

them

contrived

to

eat

a

meal

on

one

of

the

seats

forward.

There

were

already

a

couple

of

score

of

passengers

aboard,

some

of

whom

had

expended

their

last

money

in

securing

a

passage,

but

the

captain

lay

off

the

Blackwater

until

five

in

the

afternoon,

picking

up

passengers

until

the

seated

decks

were

even

dangerously

crowded.

He

would

probably

have

remained

longer

had

it

not

been

for

the

sound

of

guns

that

began

about

that

hour

in

the

south.

As

if

in

answer,

the

ironclad

seaward

fired

a

small

gun

and

hoisted

a

string

of

flags.

A

jet

of

smoke

sprang

out

of

her

funnels.

Some

of

the

passengers

were

of

opinion

that

this

firing

came

from

Shoeburyness,

until

it

was

noticed

that

it

was

growing

louder.

At

the

same

time,

far

away

in

the

southeast

the

masts

and

upperworks

of

three

ironclads

rose

one

after

the

other

out

of

the

sea,

beneath

clouds

of

black

smoke.

But

my

brother’s

attention

speedily

reverted

to

the

distant

firing

in

the

south.

He

fancied

he

saw

a

column

of

smoke

rising

out

of

the

distant

grey

haze.

The

little

steamer

was

already

flapping

her

way

eastward

of

the

big

crescent

of

shipping,

and

the

low

Essex

coast

was

growing

blue

and

hazy,

when

a

Martian

appeared,

small

and

faint

in

the

remote

distance,

advancing

along

the

muddy

coast

from

the

direction

of

Foulness.

At

that

the

captain

on

the

bridge

swore

at

the

top

of

his

voice

with

fear

and

anger

at

his

own

delay,

and

the

paddles

seemed

infected

with

his

terror.

Every

soul

aboard

stood

at

the

bulwarks

or

on

the

seats

of

the

steamer

and

stared

at

that

distant

shape,

higher

than

the

trees

or

church

towers

inland,

and

advancing

with

a

leisurely

parody

of

a

human

stride.

It

was

the

first

Martian

my

brother

had

seen,

and

he

stood,

more

amazed

than

terrified,

watching

this

Titan

advancing

deliberately

towards

the

shipping,

wading

farther

and

farther

into

the

water

as

the

coast

fell

away.

Then,

far

away

beyond

the

Crouch,

came

another,

striding

over

some

stunted

trees,

and

then

yet

another,

still

farther

off,

wading

deeply

through

a

shiny

mudflat

that

seemed

to

hang

halfway

up

between

sea

and

sky.

They

were

all

stalking

seaward,

as

if

to

intercept

the

escape

of

the

multitudinous

vessels

that

were

crowded

between

Foulness

and

the

Naze.

In

spite

of

the

throbbing

exertions

of

the

engines

of

the

little

paddle-boat,

and

the

pouring

foam

that

her

wheels

flung

behind

her,

she

receded

with

terrifying

slowness

from

this

ominous

advance.

Glancing

northwestward,

my

brother

saw

the

large

crescent

of

shipping

already

writhing

with

the

approaching

terror;

one

ship

passing

behind

another,

another

coming

round

from

broadside

to

end

on,

steamships

whistling

and

giving

off

volumes

of

steam,

sails

being

let

out,

launches

rushing

hither

and

thither.

He

was

so

fascinated

by

this

and

by

the

creeping

danger

away

to

the

left

that

he

had

no

eyes

for

anything

seaward.

And

then

a

swift

movement

of

the

steamboat

(she

had

suddenly

come

round

to

avoid

being

run

down)

flung

him

headlong

from

the

seat

upon

which

he

was

standing.

There

was

a

shouting

all

about

him,

a

trampling

of

feet,

and

a

cheer

that

seemed

to

be

answered

faintly.

The

steamboat

lurched

and

rolled

him

over

upon

his

hands.

He

sprang

to

his

feet

and

saw

to

starboard,

and

not

a

hundred

yards

from

their

heeling,

pitching

boat,

a

vast

iron

bulk

like

the

blade

of

a

plough

tearing

through

the

water,

tossing

it

on

either

side

in

huge

waves

of

foam

that

leaped

towards

the

steamer,

flinging

her

paddles

helplessly

in

the

air,

and

then

sucking

her

deck

down

almost

to

the

waterline.

A

douche

of

spray

blinded

my

brother

for

a

moment.

When

his

eyes

were

clear

again

he

saw

the

monster

had

passed

and

was

rushing

landward.

Big

iron

upperworks

rose

out

of

this

headlong

structure,

and

from

that

twin

funnels

projected

and

spat

a

smoking

blast

shot

with

fire.

It

was

the

torpedo

ram,

Thunder

Child,

steaming

headlong,

coming

to

the

rescue

of

the

threatened

shipping.

Keeping

his

footing

on

the

heaving

deck

by

clutching

the

bulwarks,

my

brother

looked

past

this

charging

leviathan

at

the

Martians

again,

and

he

saw

the

three

of

them

now

close

together,

and

standing

so

far

out

to

sea

that

their

tripod

supports

were

almost

entirely

submerged.

Thus

sunken,

and

seen

in

remote

perspective,

they

appeared

far

less

formidable

than

the

huge

iron

bulk

in

whose

wake

the

steamer

was

pitching

so

helplessly.

It

would

seem

they

were

regarding

this

new

antagonist

with

astonishment.

To

their

intelligence,

it

may

be,

the

giant

was

even

such

another

as

themselves.

The

Thunder

Child

fired

no

gun,

but

simply

drove

full

speed

towards

them.

It

was

probably

her

not

firing

that

enabled

her

to

get

so

near

the

enemy

as

she

did.

They

did

not

know

what

to

make

of

her.

One

shell,

and

they

would

have

sent

her

to

the

bottom

forthwith

with

the

Heat-Ray.

She

was

steaming

at

such

a

pace

that

in

a

minute

she

seemed

halfway

between

the

steamboat

and

the

Martians—a

diminishing

black

bulk

against

the

receding

horizontal

expanse

of

the

Essex

coast.

Suddenly

the

foremost

Martian

lowered

his

tube

and

discharged

a

canister

of

the

black

gas

at

the

ironclad.

It

hit

her

larboard

side

and

glanced

off

in

an

inky

jet

that

rolled

away

to

seaward,

an

unfolding

torrent

of

Black

Smoke,

from

which

the

ironclad

drove

clear.

To

the

watchers

from

the

steamer,

low

in

the

water

and

with

the

sun

in

their

eyes,

it

seemed

as

though

she

were

already

among

the

Martians.

They

saw

the

gaunt

figures

separating

and

rising

out

of

the

water

as

they

retreated

shoreward,

and

one

of

them

raised

the

camera-like

generator

of

the

Heat-Ray.

He

held

it

pointing

obliquely

downward,

and

a

bank

of

steam

sprang

from

the

water

at

its

touch.

It

must

have

driven

through

the

iron

of

the

ship’s

side

like

a

white-hot

iron

rod

through

paper.

A

flicker

of

flame

went

up

through

the

rising

steam,

and

then

the

Martian

reeled

and

staggered.

In

another

moment

he

was

cut

down,

and

a

great

body

of

water

and

steam

shot

high

in

the

air.

The

guns

of

the

Thunder

Child

sounded

through

the

reek,

going

off

one

after

the

other,

and

one

shot

splashed

the

water

high

close

by

the

steamer,

ricocheted

towards

the

other

flying

ships

to

the

north,

and

smashed

a

smack

to

matchwood.

But

no

one

heeded

that

very

much.

At

the

sight

of

the

Martian’s

collapse

the

captain

on

the

bridge

yelled

inarticulately,

and

all

the

crowding

passengers

on

the

steamer’s

stern

shouted

together.

And

then

they

yelled

again.

For,

surging

out

beyond

the

white

tumult,

drove

something

long

and

black,

the

flames

streaming

from

its

middle

parts,

its

ventilators

and

funnels

spouting

fire.

She

was

alive

still;

the

steering

gear,

it

seems,

was

intact

and

her

engines

working.

She

headed

straight

for

a

second

Martian,

and

was

within

a

hundred

yards

of

him

when

the

Heat-Ray

came

to

bear.

Then

with

a

violent

thud,

a

blinding

flash,

her

decks,

her

funnels,

leaped

upward.

The

Martian

staggered

with

the

violence

of

her

explosion,

and

in

another

moment

the

flaming

wreckage,

still

driving

forward

with

the

impetus

of

its

pace,

had

struck

him

and

crumpled

him

up

like

a

thing

of

cardboard.

My

brother

shouted

involuntarily.

A

boiling

tumult

of

steam

hid

everything

again.

“Two!”

yelled

the

captain.

Everyone

was

shouting.

The

whole

steamer

from

end

to

end

rang

with

frantic

cheering

that

was

taken

up

first

by

one

and

then

by

all

in

the

crowding

multitude

of

ships

and

boats

that

was

driving

out

to

sea.

The

steam

hung

upon

the

water

for

many

minutes,

hiding

the

third

Martian

and

the

coast

altogether.

And

all

this

time

the

boat

was

paddling

steadily

out

to

sea

and

away

from

the

fight;

and

when

at

last

the

confusion

cleared,

the

drifting

bank

of

black

vapour

intervened,

and

nothing

of

the

Thunder

Child

could

be

made

out,

nor

could

the

third

Martian

be

seen.

But

the

ironclads

to

seaward

were

now

quite

close

and

standing

in

towards

shore

past

the

steamboat.

The

little

vessel

continued

to

beat

its

way

seaward,

and

the

ironclads

receded

slowly

towards

the

coast,

which

was

hidden

still

by

a

marbled

bank

of

vapour,

part

steam,

part

black

gas,

eddying

and

combining

in

the

strangest

way.

The

fleet

of

refugees

was

scattering

to

the

northeast;

several

smacks

were

sailing

between

the

ironclads

and

the

steamboat.

After

a

time,

and

before

they

reached

the

sinking

cloud

bank,

the

warships

turned

northward,

and

then

abruptly

went

about

and

passed

into

the

thickening

haze

of

evening

southward.

The

coast

grew

faint,

and

at

last

indistinguishable

amid

the

low

banks

of

clouds

that

were

gathering

about

the

sinking

sun.

Then

suddenly

out

of

the

golden

haze

of

the

sunset

came

the

vibration

of

guns,

and

a

form

of

black

shadows

moving.

Everyone

struggled

to

the

rail

of

the

steamer

and

peered

into

the

blinding

furnace

of

the

west,

but

nothing

was

to

be

distinguished

clearly.

A

mass

of

smoke

rose

slanting

and

barred

the

face

of

the

sun.

The

steamboat

throbbed

on

its

way

through

an

interminable

suspense.

The

sun

sank

into

grey

clouds,

the

sky

flushed

and

darkened,

the

evening

star

trembled

into

sight.

It

was

deep

twilight

when

the

captain

cried

out

and

pointed.

My

brother

strained

his

eyes.

Something

rushed

up

into

the

sky

out

of

the

greyness—rushed

slantingly

upward

and

very

swiftly

into

the

luminous

clearness

above

the

clouds

in

the

western

sky;

something

flat

and

broad,

and

very

large,

that

swept

round

in

a

vast

curve,

grew

smaller,

sank

slowly,

and

vanished

again

into

the

grey

mystery

of

the

night.

And

as

it

flew

it

rained

down

darkness

upon

the

land.

BOOK

TWO

THE

EARTH

UNDER

THE

MARTIANS.

I.

UNDER

FOOT.

In

the

first

book

I

have

wandered

so

much

from

my

own

adventures

to

tell

of

the

experiences

of

my

brother

that

all

through

the

last

two

chapters

I

and

the

curate

have

been

lurking

in

the

empty

house

at

Halliford

whither

we

fled

to

escape

the

Black

Smoke.

There

I

will

resume.

We

stopped

there

all

Sunday

night

and

all

the

next

day—the

day

of

the

panic—in

a

little

island

of

daylight,

cut

off

by

the

Black

Smoke

from

the

rest

of

the

world.

We

could

do

nothing

but

wait

in

aching

inactivity

during

those

two

weary

days.

My

mind

was

occupied

by

anxiety

for

my

wife.

I

figured

her

at

Leatherhead,

terrified,

in

danger,

mourning

me

already

as

a

dead

man.

I

paced

the

rooms

and

cried

aloud

when

I

thought

of

how

I

was

cut

off

from

her,

of

all

that

might

happen

to

her

in

my

absence.

My

cousin

I

knew

was

brave

enough

for

any

emergency,

but

he

was

not

the

sort

of

man

to

realise

danger

quickly,

to

rise

promptly.

What

was

needed

now

was

not

bravery,

but

circumspection.

My

only

consolation

was

to

believe

that

the

Martians

were

moving

Londonward

and

away

from

her.

Such

vague

anxieties

keep

the

mind

sensitive

and

painful.

I

grew

very

weary

and

irritable

with

the

curate’s

perpetual

ejaculations;

I

tired

of

the

sight

of

his

selfish

despair.

After

some

ineffectual

remonstrance

I

kept

away

from

him,

staying

in

a

room—evidently

a

children’s

schoolroom—containing

globes,

forms,

and

copybooks.

When

he

followed

me

thither,

I

went

to

a

box

room

at

the

top

of

the

house

and,

in

order

to

be

alone

with

my

aching

miseries,

locked

myself

in.

We

were

hopelessly

hemmed

in

by

the

Black

Smoke

all

that

day

and

the

morning

of

the

next.

There

were

signs

of

people

in

the

next

house

on

Sunday

evening—a

face

at

a

window

and

moving

lights,

and

later

the

slamming

of

a

door.

But

I

do

not

know

who

these

people

were,

nor

what

became

of

them.

We

saw

nothing

of

them

next

day.

The

Black

Smoke

drifted

slowly

riverward

all

through

Monday

morning,

creeping

nearer

and

nearer

to

us,

driving

at

last

along

the

roadway

outside

the

house

that

hid

us.

A

Martian

came

across

the

fields

about

midday,

laying

the

stuff

with

a

jet

of

superheated

steam

that

hissed

against

the

walls,

smashed

all

the

windows

it

touched,

and

scalded

the

curate’s

hand

as

he

fled

out

of

the

front

room.

When

at

last

we

crept

across

the

sodden

rooms

and

looked

out

again,

the

country

northward

was

as

though

a

black

snowstorm

had

passed

over

it.

Looking

towards

the

river,

we

were

astonished

to

see

an

unaccountable

redness

mingling

with

the

black

of

the

scorched

meadows.

For

a

time

we

did

not

see

how

this

change

affected

our

position,

save

that

we

were

relieved

of

our

fear

of

the

Black

Smoke.

But

later

I

perceived

that

we

were

no

longer

hemmed

in,

that

now

we

might

get

away.

So

soon

as

I

realised

that

the

way

of

escape

was

open,

my

dream

of

action

returned.

But

the

curate

was

lethargic,

unreasonable.

“We

are

safe

here,”

he

repeated;

“safe

here.”

I

resolved

to

leave

him—would

that

I

had!

Wiser

now

for

the

artilleryman’s

teaching,

I

sought

out

food

and

drink.

I

had

found

oil

and

rags

for

my

burns,

and

I

also

took

a

hat

and

a

flannel

shirt

that

I

found

in

one

of

the

bedrooms.

When

it

was

clear

to

him

that

I

meant

to

go

alone—had

reconciled

myself

to

going

alone—he

suddenly

roused

himself

to

come.

And

all

being

quiet

throughout

the

afternoon,

we

started

about

five

o’clock,

as

I

should

judge,

along

the

blackened

road

to

Sunbury.

In

Sunbury,

and

at

intervals

along

the

road,

were

dead

bodies

lying

in

contorted

attitudes,

horses

as

well

as

men,

overturned

carts

and

luggage,

all

covered

thickly

with

black

dust.

That

pall

of

cindery

powder

made

me

think

of

what

I

had

read

of

the

destruction

of

Pompeii.

We

got

to

Hampton

Court

without

misadventure,

our

minds

full

of

strange

and

unfamiliar

appearances,

and

at

Hampton

Court

our

eyes

were

relieved

to

find

a

patch

of

green

that

had

escaped

the

suffocating

drift.

We

went

through

Bushey

Park,

with

its

deer

going

to

and

fro

under

the

chestnuts,

and

some

men

and

women

hurrying

in

the

distance

towards

Hampton,

and

so

we

came

to

Twickenham.

These

were

the

first

people

we

saw.

Away

across

the

road

the

woods

beyond

Ham

and

Petersham

were

still

afire.

Twickenham

was

uninjured

by

either

Heat-Ray

or

Black

Smoke,

and

there

were

more

people

about

here,

though

none

could

give

us

news.

For

the

most

part

they

were

like

ourselves,

taking

advantage

of

a

lull

to

shift

their

quarters.

I

have

an

impression

that

many

of

the

houses

here

were

still

occupied

by

scared

inhabitants,

too

frightened

even

for

flight.

Here

too

the

evidence

of

a

hasty

rout

was

abundant

along

the

road.

I

remember

most

vividly

three

smashed

bicycles

in

a

heap,

pounded

into

the

road

by

the

wheels

of

subsequent

carts.

We

crossed

Richmond

Bridge

about

half

past

eight.

We

hurried

across

the

exposed

bridge,

of

course,

but

I

noticed

floating

down

the

stream

a

number

of

red

masses,

some

many

feet

across.

I

did

not

know

what

these

were—there

was

no

time

for

scrutiny—and

I

put

a

more

horrible

interpretation

on

them

than

they

deserved.

Here

again

on

the

Surrey

side

were

black

dust

that

had

once

been

smoke,

and

dead

bodies—a

heap

near

the

approach

to

the

station;

but

we

had

no

glimpse

of

the

Martians

until

we

were

some

way

towards

Barnes.

We

saw

in

the

blackened

distance

a

group

of

three

people

running

down

a

side

street

towards

the

river,

but

otherwise

it

seemed

deserted.

Up

the

hill

Richmond

town

was

burning

briskly;

outside

the

town

of

Richmond

there

was

no

trace

of

the

Black

Smoke.

Then

suddenly,

as

we

approached

Kew,

came

a

number

of

people

running,

and

the

upperworks

of

a

Martian

fighting-machine

loomed

in

sight

over

the

housetops,

not

a

hundred

yards

away

from

us.

We

stood

aghast

at

our

danger,

and

had

the

Martian

looked

down

we

must

immediately

have

perished.

We

were

so

terrified

that

we

dared

not

go

on,

but

turned

aside

and

hid

in

a

shed

in

a

garden.

There

the

curate

crouched,

weeping

silently,

and

refusing

to

stir

again.

But

my

fixed

idea

of

reaching

Leatherhead

would

not

let

me

rest,

and

in

the

twilight

I

ventured

out

again.

I

went

through

a

shrubbery,

and

along

a

passage

beside

a

big

house

standing

in

its

own

grounds,

and

so

emerged

upon

the

road

towards

Kew.

The

curate

I

left

in

the

shed,

but

he

came

hurrying

after

me.

That

second

start

was

the

most

foolhardy

thing

I

ever

did.

For

it

was

manifest

the

Martians

were

about

us.

No

sooner

had

the

curate

overtaken

me

than

we

saw

either

the

fighting-machine

we

had

seen

before

or

another,

far

away

across

the

meadows

in

the

direction

of

Kew

Lodge.

Four

or

five

little

black

figures

hurried

before

it

across

the

green-grey

of

the

field,

and

in

a

moment

it

was

evident

this

Martian

pursued

them.

In

three

strides

he

was

among

them,

and

they

ran

radiating

from

his

feet

in

all

directions.

He

used

no

Heat-Ray

to

destroy

them,

but

picked

them

up

one

by

one.

Apparently

he

tossed

them

into

the

great

metallic

carrier

which

projected

behind

him,

much

as

a

workman’s

basket

hangs

over

his

shoulder.

It

was

the

first

time

I

realised

that

the

Martians

might

have

any

other

purpose

than

destruction

with

defeated

humanity.

We

stood

for

a

moment

petrified,

then

turned

and

fled

through

a

gate

behind

us

into

a

walled

garden,

fell

into,

rather

than

found,

a

fortunate

ditch,

and

lay

there,

scarce

daring

to

whisper

to

each

other

until

the

stars

were

out.

I

suppose

it

was

nearly

eleven

o’clock

before

we

gathered

courage

to

start

again,

no

longer

venturing

into

the

road,

but

sneaking

along

hedgerows

and

through

plantations,

and

watching

keenly

through

the

darkness,

he

on

the

right

and

I

on

the

left,

for

the

Martians,

who

seemed

to

be

all

about

us.

In

one

place

we

blundered

upon

a

scorched

and

blackened

area,

now

cooling

and

ashen,

and

a

number

of

scattered

dead

bodies

of

men,

burned

horribly

about

the

heads

and

trunks

but

with

their

legs

and

boots

mostly

intact;

and

of

dead

horses,

fifty

feet,

perhaps,

behind

a

line

of

four

ripped

guns

and

smashed

gun

carriages.

Sheen,

it

seemed,

had

escaped

destruction,

but

the

place

was

silent

and

deserted.

Here

we

happened

on

no

dead,

though

the

night

was

too

dark

for

us

to

see

into

the

side

roads

of

the

place.

In

Sheen

my

companion

suddenly

complained

of

faintness

and

thirst,

and

we

decided

to

try

one

of

the

houses.

The

first

house

we

entered,

after

a

little

difficulty

with

the

window,

was

a

small

semi-detached

villa,

and

I

found

nothing

eatable

left

in

the

place

but

some

mouldy

cheese.

There

was,

however,

water

to

drink;

and

I

took

a

hatchet,

which

promised

to

be

useful

in

our

next

house-breaking.

We

then

crossed

to

a

place

where

the

road

turns

towards

Mortlake.

Here

there

stood

a

white

house

within

a

walled

garden,

and

in

the

pantry

of

this

domicile

we

found

a

store

of

food—two

loaves

of

bread

in

a

pan,

an

uncooked

steak,

and

the

half

of

a

ham.

I

give

this

catalogue

so

precisely

because,

as

it

happened,

we

were

destined

to

subsist

upon

this

store

for

the

next

fortnight.

Bottled

beer

stood

under

a

shelf,

and

there

were

two

bags

of

haricot

beans

and

some

limp

lettuces.

This

pantry

opened

into

a

kind

of

wash-up

kitchen,

and

in

this

was

firewood;

there

was

also

a

cupboard,

in

which

we

found

nearly

a

dozen

of

burgundy,

tinned

soups

and

salmon,

and

two

tins

of

biscuits.

We

sat

in

the

adjacent

kitchen

in

the

dark—for

we

dared

not

strike

a

light—and

ate

bread

and

ham,

and

drank

beer

out

of

the

same

bottle.

The

curate,

who

was

still

timorous

and

restless,

was

now,

oddly

enough,

for

pushing

on,

and

I

was

urging

him

to

keep

up

his

strength

by

eating

when

the

thing

happened

that

was

to

imprison

us.

“It

can’t

be

midnight

yet,”

I

said,

and

then

came

a

blinding

glare

of

vivid

green

light.

Everything

in

the

kitchen

leaped

out,

clearly

visible

in

green

and

black,

and

vanished

again.

And

then

followed

such

a

concussion

as

I

have

never

heard

before

or

since.

So

close

on

the

heels

of

this

as

to

seem

instantaneous

came

a

thud

behind

me,

a

clash

of

glass,

a

crash

and

rattle

of

falling

masonry

all

about

us,

and

the

plaster

of

the

ceiling

came

down

upon

us,

smashing

into

a

multitude

of

fragments

upon

our

heads.

I

was

knocked

headlong

across

the

floor

against

the

oven

handle

and

stunned.

I

was

insensible

for

a

long

time,

the

curate

told

me,

and

when

I

came

to

we

were

in

darkness

again,

and

he,

with

a

face

wet,

as

I

found

afterwards,

with

blood

from

a

cut

forehead,

was

dabbing

water

over

me.

For

some

time

I

could

not

recollect

what

had

happened.

Then

things

came

to

me

slowly.

A

bruise

on

my

temple

asserted

itself.

“Are

you

better?”

asked

the

curate

in

a

whisper.

At

last

I

answered

him.

I

sat

up.

“Don’t

move,”

he

said.

“The

floor

is

covered

with

smashed

crockery

from

the

dresser.

You

can’t

possibly

move

without

making

a

noise,

and

I

fancy

they

are

outside.”

We

both

sat

quite

silent,

so

that

we

could

scarcely

hear

each

other

breathing.

Everything

seemed

deadly

still,

but

once

something

near

us,

some

plaster

or

broken

brickwork,

slid

down

with

a

rumbling

sound.

Outside

and

very

near

was

an

intermittent,

metallic

rattle.

“That!”

said

the

curate,

when

presently

it

happened

again.

“Yes,”

I

said.

“But

what

is

it?”

“A

Martian!”

said

the

curate.

I

listened

again.

“It

was

not

like

the

Heat-Ray,”

I

said,

and

for

a

time

I

was

inclined

to

think

one

of

the

great

fighting-machines

had

stumbled

against

the

house,

as

I

had

seen

one

stumble

against

the

tower

of

Shepperton

Church.

Our

situation

was

so

strange

and

incomprehensible

that

for

three

or

four

hours,

until

the

dawn

came,

we

scarcely

moved.

And

then

the

light

filtered

in,

not

through

the

window,

which

remained

black,

but

through

a

triangular

aperture

between

a

beam

and

a

heap

of

broken

bricks

in

the

wall

behind

us.

The

interior

of

the

kitchen

we

now

saw

greyly

for

the

first

time.

The

window

had

been

burst

in

by

a

mass

of

garden

mould,

which

flowed

over

the

table

upon

which

we

had

been

sitting

and

lay

about

our

feet.

Outside,

the

soil

was

banked

high

against

the

house.

At

the

top

of

the

window

frame

we

could

see

an

uprooted

drainpipe.

The

floor

was

littered

with

smashed

hardware;

the

end

of

the

kitchen

towards

the

house

was

broken

into,

and

since

the

daylight

shone

in

there,

it

was

evident

the

greater

part

of

the

house

had

collapsed.

Contrasting

vividly

with

this

ruin

was

the

neat

dresser,

stained

in

the

fashion,

pale

green,

and

with

a

number

of

copper

and

tin

vessels

below

it,

the

wallpaper

imitating

blue

and

white

tiles,

and

a

couple

of

coloured

supplements

fluttering

from

the

walls

above

the

kitchen

range.

As

the

dawn

grew

clearer,

we

saw

through

the

gap

in

the

wall

the

body

of

a

Martian,

standing

sentinel,

I

suppose,

over

the

still

glowing

cylinder.

At

the

sight

of

that

we

crawled

as

circumspectly

as

possible

out

of

the

twilight

of

the

kitchen

into

the

darkness

of

the

scullery.

Abruptly

the

right

interpretation

dawned

upon

my

mind.

“The

fifth

cylinder,”

I

whispered,

“the

fifth

shot

from

Mars,

has

struck

this

house

and

buried

us

under

the

ruins!”

For

a

time

the

curate

was

silent,

and

then

he

whispered:

“God

have

mercy

upon

us!”

I

heard

him

presently

whimpering

to

himself.

Save

for

that

sound

we

lay

quite

still

in

the

scullery;

I

for

my

part

scarce

dared

breathe,

and

sat

with

my

eyes

fixed

on

the

faint

light

of

the

kitchen

door.

I

could

just

see

the

curate’s

face,

a

dim,

oval

shape,

and

his

collar

and

cuffs.

Outside

there

began

a

metallic

hammering,

then

a

violent

hooting,

and

then

again,

after

a

quiet

interval,

a

hissing

like

the

hissing

of

an

engine.

These

noises,

for

the

most

part

problematical,

continued

intermittently,

and

seemed

if

anything

to

increase

in

number

as

time

wore

on.

Presently

a

measured

thudding

and

a

vibration

that

made

everything

about

us

quiver

and

the

vessels

in

the

pantry

ring

and

shift,

began

and

continued.

Once

the

light

was

eclipsed,

and

the

ghostly

kitchen

doorway

became

absolutely

dark.

For

many

hours

we

must

have

crouched

there,

silent

and

shivering,

until

our

tired

attention

failed.

.

.

.

At

last

I

found

myself

awake

and

very

hungry.

I

am

inclined

to

believe

we

must

have

spent

the

greater

portion

of

a

day

before

that

awakening.

My

hunger

was

at

a

stride

so

insistent

that

it

moved

me

to

action.

I

told

the

curate

I

was

going

to

seek

food,

and

felt

my

way

towards

the

pantry.

He

made

me

no

answer,

but

so

soon

as

I

began

eating

the

faint

noise

I

made

stirred

him

up

and

I

heard

him

crawling

after

me.

II.

WHAT

WE

SAW

FROM

THE

RUINED

HOUSE.

After

eating

we

crept

back

to

the

scullery,

and

there

I

must

have

dozed

again,

for

when

presently

I

looked

round

I

was

alone.

The

thudding

vibration

continued

with

wearisome

persistence.

I

whispered

for

the

curate

several

times,

and

at

last

felt

my

way

to

the

door

of

the

kitchen.

It

was

still

daylight,

and

I

perceived

him

across

the

room,

lying

against

the

triangular

hole

that

looked

out

upon

the

Martians.

His

shoulders

were

hunched,

so

that

his

head

was

hidden

from

me.

I

could

hear

a

number

of

noises

almost

like

those

in

an

engine

shed;

and

the

place

rocked

with

that

beating

thud.

Through

the

aperture

in

the

wall

I

could

see

the

top

of

a

tree

touched

with

gold

and

the

warm

blue

of

a

tranquil

evening

sky.

For

a

minute

or

so

I

remained

watching

the

curate,

and

then

I

advanced,

crouching

and

stepping

with

extreme

care

amid

the

broken

crockery

that

littered

the

floor.

I

touched

the

curate’s

leg,

and

he

started

so

violently

that

a

mass

of

plaster

went

sliding

down

outside

and

fell

with

a

loud

impact.

I

gripped

his

arm,

fearing

he

might

cry

out,

and

for

a

long

time

we

crouched

motionless.

Then

I

turned

to

see

how

much

of

our

rampart

remained.

The

detachment

of

the

plaster

had

left

a

vertical

slit

open

in

the

debris,

and

by

raising

myself

cautiously

across

a

beam

I

was

able

to

see

out

of

this

gap

into

what

had

been

overnight

a

quiet

suburban

roadway.

Vast,

indeed,

was

the

change

that

we

beheld.

The

fifth

cylinder

must

have

fallen

right

into

the

midst

of

the

house

we

had

first

visited.

The

building

had

vanished,

completely

smashed,

pulverised,

and

dispersed

by

the

blow.

The

cylinder

lay

now

far

beneath

the

original

foundations—deep

in

a

hole,

already

vastly

larger

than

the

pit

I

had

looked

into

at

Woking.

The

earth

all

round

it

had

splashed

under

that

tremendous

impact—“splashed”

is

the

only

word—and

lay

in

heaped

piles

that

hid

the

masses

of

the

adjacent

houses.

It

had

behaved

exactly

like

mud

under

the

violent

blow

of

a

hammer.

Our

house

had

collapsed

backward;

the

front

portion,

even

on

the

ground

floor,

had

been

destroyed

completely;

by

a

chance

the

kitchen

and

scullery

had

escaped,

and

stood

buried

now

under

soil

and

ruins,

closed

in

by

tons

of

earth

on

every

side

save

towards

the

cylinder.

Over

that

aspect

we

hung

now

on

the

very

edge

of

the

great

circular

pit

the

Martians

were

engaged

in

making.

The

heavy

beating

sound

was

evidently

just

behind

us,

and

ever

and

again

a

bright

green

vapour

drove

up

like

a

veil

across

our

peephole.

The

cylinder

was

already

opened

in

the

centre

of

the

pit,

and

on

the

farther

edge

of

the

pit,

amid

the

smashed

and

gravel-heaped

shrubbery,

one

of

the

great

fighting-machines,

deserted

by

its

occupant,

stood

stiff

and

tall

against

the

evening

sky.

At

first

I

scarcely

noticed

the

pit

and

the

cylinder,

although

it

has

been

convenient

to

describe

them

first,

on

account

of

the

extraordinary

glittering

mechanism

I

saw

busy

in

the

excavation,

and

on

account

of

the

strange

creatures

that

were

crawling

slowly

and

painfully

across

the

heaped

mould

near

it.

The

mechanism

it

certainly

was

that

held

my

attention

first.

It

was

one

of

those

complicated

fabrics

that

have

since

been

called

handling-machines,

and

the

study

of

which

has

already

given

such

an

enormous

impetus

to

terrestrial

invention.

As

it

dawned

upon

me

first,

it

presented

a

sort

of

metallic

spider

with

five

jointed,

agile

legs,

and

with

an

extraordinary

number

of

jointed

levers,

bars,

and

reaching

and

clutching

tentacles

about

its

body.

Most

of

its

arms

were

retracted,

but

with

three

long

tentacles

it

was

fishing

out

a

number

of

rods,

plates,

and

bars

which

lined

the

covering

and

apparently

strengthened

the

walls

of

the

cylinder.

These,

as

it

extracted

them,

were

lifted

out

and

deposited

upon

a

level

surface

of

earth

behind

it.

Its

motion

was

so

swift,

complex,

and

perfect

that

at

first

I

did

not

see

it

as

a

machine,

in

spite

of

its

metallic

glitter.

The

fighting-machines

were

coordinated

and

animated

to

an

extraordinary

pitch,

but

nothing

to

compare

with

this.

People

who

have

never

seen

these

structures,

and

have

only

the

ill-imagined

efforts

of

artists

or

the

imperfect

descriptions

of

such

eye-witnesses

as

myself

to

go

upon,

scarcely

realise

that

living

quality.

I

recall

particularly

the

illustration

of

one

of

the

first

pamphlets

to

give

a

consecutive

account

of

the

war.

The

artist

had

evidently

made

a

hasty

study

of

one

of

the

fighting-machines,

and

there

his

knowledge

ended.

He

presented

them

as

tilted,

stiff

tripods,

without

either

flexibility

or

subtlety,

and

with

an

altogether

misleading

monotony

of

effect.

The

pamphlet

containing

these

renderings

had

a

considerable

vogue,

and

I

mention

them

here

simply

to

warn

the

reader

against

the

impression

they

may

have

created.

They

were

no

more

like

the

Martians

I

saw

in

action

than

a

Dutch

doll

is

like

a

human

being.

To

my

mind,

the

pamphlet

would

have

been

much

better

without

them.

At

first,

I

say,

the

handling-machine

did

not

impress

me

as

a

machine,

but

as

a

crablike

creature

with

a

glittering

integument,

the

controlling

Martian

whose

delicate

tentacles

actuated

its

movements

seeming

to

be

simply

the

equivalent

of

the

crab’s

cerebral

portion.

But

then

I

perceived

the

resemblance

of

its

grey-brown,

shiny,

leathery

integument

to

that

of

the

other

sprawling

bodies

beyond,

and

the

true

nature

of

this

dexterous

workman

dawned

upon

me.

With

that

realisation

my

interest

shifted

to

those

other

creatures,

the

real

Martians.

Already

I

had

had

a

transient

impression

of

these,

and

the

first

nausea

no

longer

obscured

my

observation.

Moreover,

I

was

concealed

and

motionless,

and

under

no

urgency

of

action.

They

were,

I

now

saw,

the

most

unearthly

creatures

it

is

possible

to

conceive.

They

were

huge

round

bodies—or,

rather,

heads—about

four

feet

in

diameter,

each

body

having

in

front

of

it

a

face.

This

face

had

no

nostrils—indeed,

the

Martians

do

not

seem

to

have

had

any

sense

of

smell,

but

it

had

a

pair

of

very

large

dark-coloured

eyes,

and

just

beneath

this

a

kind

of

fleshy

beak.

In

the

back

of

this

head

or

body—I

scarcely

know

how

to

speak

of

it—was

the

single

tight

tympanic

surface,

since

known

to

be

anatomically

an

ear,

though

it

must

have

been

almost

useless

in

our

dense

air.

In

a

group

round

the

mouth

were

sixteen

slender,

almost

whiplike

tentacles,

arranged

in

two

bunches

of

eight

each.

These

bunches

have

since

been

named

rather

aptly,

by

that

distinguished

anatomist,

Professor

Howes,

the

hands.

Even

as

I

saw

these

Martians

for

the

first

time

they

seemed

to

be

endeavouring

to

raise

themselves

on

these

hands,

but

of

course,

with

the

increased

weight

of

terrestrial

conditions,

this

was

impossible.

There

is

reason

to

suppose

that

on

Mars

they

may

have

progressed

upon

them

with

some

facility.

The

internal

anatomy,

I

may

remark

here,

as

dissection

has

since

shown,

was

almost

equally

simple.

The

greater

part

of

the

structure

was

the

brain,

sending

enormous

nerves

to

the

eyes,

ear,

and

tactile

tentacles.

Besides

this

were

the

bulky

lungs,

into

which

the

mouth

opened,

and

the

heart

and

its

vessels.

The

pulmonary

distress

caused

by

the

denser

atmosphere

and

greater

gravitational

attraction

was

only

too

evident

in

the

convulsive

movements

of

the

outer

skin.

And

this

was

the

sum

of

the

Martian

organs.

Strange

as

it

may

seem

to

a

human

being,

all

the

complex

apparatus

of

digestion,

which

makes

up

the

bulk

of

our

bodies,

did

not

exist

in

the

Martians.

They

were

heads—merely

heads.

Entrails

they

had

none.

They

did

not

eat,

much

less

digest.

Instead,

they

took

the

fresh,

living

blood

of

other

creatures,

and

injected

it

into

their

own

veins.

I

have

myself

seen

this

being

done,

as

I

shall

mention

in

its

place.

But,

squeamish

as

I

may

seem,

I

cannot

bring

myself

to

describe

what

I

could

not

endure

even

to

continue

watching.

Let

it

suffice

to

say,

blood

obtained

from

a

still

living

animal,

in

most

cases

from

a

human

being,

was

run

directly

by

means

of

a

little

pipette

into

the

recipient

canal.

.

.

.

The

bare

idea

of

this

is

no

doubt

horribly

repulsive

to

us,

but

at

the

same

time

I

think

that

we

should

remember

how

repulsive

our

carnivorous

habits

would

seem

to

an

intelligent

rabbit.

The

physiological

advantages

of

the

practice

of

injection

are

undeniable,

if

one

thinks

of

the

tremendous

waste

of

human

time

and

energy

occasioned

by

eating

and

the

digestive

process.

Our

bodies

are

half

made

up

of

glands

and

tubes

and

organs,

occupied

in

turning

heterogeneous

food

into

blood.

The

digestive

processes

and

their

reaction

upon

the

nervous

system

sap

our

strength

and

colour

our

minds.

Men

go

happy

or

miserable

as

they

have

healthy

or

unhealthy

livers,

or

sound

gastric

glands.

But

the

Martians

were

lifted

above

all

these

organic

fluctuations

of

mood

and

emotion.

Their

undeniable

preference

for

men

as

their

source

of

nourishment

is

partly

explained

by

the

nature

of

the

remains

of

the

victims

they

had

brought

with

them

as

provisions

from

Mars.

These

creatures,

to

judge

from

the

shrivelled

remains

that

have

fallen

into

human

hands,

were

bipeds

with

flimsy,

silicious

skeletons

(almost

like

those

of

the

silicious

sponges)

and

feeble

musculature,

standing

about

six

feet

high

and

having

round,

erect

heads,

and

large

eyes

in

flinty

sockets.

Two

or

three

of

these

seem

to

have

been

brought

in

each

cylinder,

and

all

were

killed

before

earth

was

reached.

It

was

just

as

well

for

them,

for

the

mere

attempt

to

stand

upright

upon

our

planet

would

have

broken

every

bone

in

their

bodies.

And

while

I

am

engaged

in

this

description,

I

may

add

in

this

place

certain

further

details

which,

although

they

were

not

all

evident

to

us

at

the

time,

will

enable

the

reader

who

is

unacquainted

with

them

to

form

a

clearer

picture

of

these

offensive

creatures.

In

three

other

points

their

physiology

differed

strangely

from

ours.

Their

organisms

did

not

sleep,

any

more

than

the

heart

of

man

sleeps.

Since

they

had

no

extensive

muscular

mechanism

to

recuperate,

that

periodical

extinction

was

unknown

to

them.

They

had

little

or

no

sense

of

fatigue,

it

would

seem.

On

earth

they

could

never

have

moved

without

effort,

yet

even

to

the

last

they

kept

in

action.

In

twenty-four

hours

they

did

twenty-four

hours

of

work,

as

even

on

earth

is

perhaps

the

case

with

the

ants.

In

the

next

place,

wonderful

as

it

seems

in

a

sexual

world,

the

Martians

were

absolutely

without

sex,

and

therefore

without

any

of

the

tumultuous

emotions

that

arise

from

that

difference

among

men.

A

young

Martian,

there

can

now

be

no

dispute,

was

really

born

upon

earth

during

the

war,

and

it

was

found

attached

to

its

parent,

partially

budded

off,

just

as

young

lilybulbs

bud

off,

or

like

the

young

animals

in

the

fresh-water

polyp.

In

man,

in

all

the

higher

terrestrial

animals,

such

a

method

of

increase

has

disappeared;

but

even

on

this

earth

it

was

certainly

the

primitive

method.

Among

the

lower

animals,

up

even

to

those

first

cousins

of

the

vertebrated

animals,

the

Tunicates,

the

two

processes

occur

side

by

side,

but

finally

the

sexual

method

superseded

its

competitor

altogether.

On

Mars,

however,

just

the

reverse

has

apparently

been

the

case.

It

is

worthy

of

remark

that

a

certain

speculative

writer

of

quasi-scientific

repute,

writing

long

before

the

Martian

invasion,

did

forecast

for

man

a

final

structure

not

unlike

the

actual

Martian

condition.

His

prophecy,

I

remember,

appeared

in

November

or

December,

1893,

in

a

long-defunct

publication,

the

Pall

Mall

Budget,

and

I

recall

a

caricature

of

it

in

a

pre-Martian

periodical

called

Punch.

He

pointed

out—writing

in

a

foolish,

facetious

tone—that

the

perfection

of

mechanical

appliances

must

ultimately

supersede

limbs;

the

perfection

of

chemical

devices,

digestion;

that

such

organs

as

hair,

external

nose,

teeth,

ears,

and

chin

were

no

longer

essential

parts

of

the

human

being,

and

that

the

tendency

of

natural

selection

would

lie

in

the

direction

of

their

steady

diminution

through

the

coming

ages.

The

brain

alone

remained

a

cardinal

necessity.

Only

one

other

part

of

the

body

had

a

strong

case

for

survival,

and

that

was

the

hand,

“teacher

and

agent

of

the

brain.”

While

the

rest

of

the

body

dwindled,

the

hands

would

grow

larger.

There

is

many

a

true

word

written

in

jest,

and

here

in

the

Martians

we

have

beyond

dispute

the

actual

accomplishment

of

such

a

suppression

of

the

animal

side

of

the

organism

by

the

intelligence.

To

me

it

is

quite

credible

that

the

Martians

may

be

descended

from

beings

not

unlike

ourselves,

by

a

gradual

development

of

brain

and

hands

(the

latter

giving

rise

to

the

two

bunches

of

delicate

tentacles

at

last)

at

the

expense

of

the

rest

of

the

body.

Without

the

body

the

brain

would,

of

course,

become

a

mere

selfish

intelligence,

without

any

of

the

emotional

substratum

of

the

human

being.

The

last

salient

point

in

which

the

systems

of

these

creatures

differed

from

ours

was

in

what

one

might

have

thought

a

very

trivial

particular.

Micro-organisms,

which

cause

so

much

disease

and

pain

on

earth,

have

either

never

appeared

upon

Mars

or

Martian

sanitary

science

eliminated

them

ages

ago.

A

hundred

diseases,

all

the

fevers

and

contagions

of

human

life,

consumption,

cancers,

tumours

and

such

morbidities,

never

enter

the

scheme

of

their

life.

And

speaking

of

the

differences

between

the

life

on

Mars

and

terrestrial

life,

I

may

allude

here

to

the

curious

suggestions

of

the

red

weed.

Apparently

the

vegetable

kingdom

in

Mars,

instead

of

having

green

for

a

dominant

colour,

is

of

a

vivid

blood-red

tint.

At

any

rate,

the

seeds

which

the

Martians

(intentionally

or

accidentally)

brought

with

them

gave

rise

in

all

cases

to

red-coloured

growths.

Only

that

known

popularly

as

the

red

weed,

however,

gained

any

footing

in

competition

with

terrestrial

forms.

The

red

creeper

was

quite

a

transitory

growth,

and

few

people

have

seen

it

growing.

For

a

time,

however,

the

red

weed

grew

with

astonishing

vigour

and

luxuriance.

It

spread

up

the

sides

of

the

pit

by

the

third

or

fourth

day

of

our

imprisonment,

and

its

cactus-like

branches

formed

a

carmine

fringe

to

the

edges

of

our

triangular

window.

And

afterwards

I

found

it

broadcast

throughout

the

country,

and

especially

wherever

there

was

a

stream

of

water.

The

Martians

had

what

appears

to

have

been

an

auditory

organ,

a

single

round

drum

at

the

back

of

the

head-body,

and

eyes

with

a

visual

range

not

very

different

from

ours

except

that,

according

to

Philips,

blue

and

violet

were

as

black

to

them.

It

is

commonly

supposed

that

they

communicated

by

sounds

and

tentacular

gesticulations;

this

is

asserted,

for

instance,

in

the

able

but

hastily

compiled

pamphlet

(written

evidently

by

someone

not

an

eye-witness

of

Martian

actions)

to

which

I

have

already

alluded,

and

which,

so

far,

has

been

the

chief

source

of

information

concerning

them.

Now

no

surviving

human

being

saw

so

much

of

the

Martians

in

action

as

I

did.

I

take

no

credit

to

myself

for

an

accident,

but

the

fact

is

so.

And

I

assert

that

I

watched

them

closely

time

after

time,

and

that

I

have

seen

four,

five,

and

(once)

six

of

them

sluggishly

performing

the

most

elaborately

complicated

operations

together

without

either

sound

or

gesture.

Their

peculiar

hooting

invariably

preceded

feeding;

it

had

no

modulation,

and

was,

I

believe,

in

no

sense

a

signal,

but

merely

the

expiration

of

air

preparatory

to

the

suctional

operation.

I

have

a

certain

claim

to

at

least

an

elementary

knowledge

of

psychology,

and

in

this

matter

I

am

convinced—as

firmly

as

I

am

convinced

of

anything—that

the

Martians

interchanged

thoughts

without

any

physical

intermediation.

And

I

have

been

convinced

of

this

in

spite

of

strong

preconceptions.

Before

the

Martian

invasion,

as

an

occasional

reader

here

or

there

may

remember,

I

had

written

with

some

little

vehemence

against

the

telepathic

theory.

The

Martians

wore

no

clothing.

Their

conceptions

of

ornament

and

decorum

were

necessarily

different

from

ours;

and

not

only

were

they

evidently

much

less

sensible

of

changes

of

temperature

than

we

are,

but

changes

of

pressure

do

not

seem

to

have

affected

their

health

at

all

seriously.

Yet

though

they

wore

no

clothing,

it

was

in

the

other

artificial

additions

to

their

bodily

resources

that

their

great

superiority

over

man

lay.

We

men,

with

our

bicycles

and

road-skates,

our

Lilienthal

soaring-machines,

our

guns

and

sticks

and

so

forth,

are

just

in

the

beginning

of

the

evolution

that

the

Martians

have

worked

out.

They

have

become

practically

mere

brains,

wearing

different

bodies

according

to

their

needs

just

as

men

wear

suits

of

clothes

and

take

a

bicycle

in

a

hurry

or

an

umbrella

in

the

wet.

And

of

their

appliances,

perhaps

nothing

is

more

wonderful

to

a

man

than

the

curious

fact

that

what

is

the

dominant

feature

of

almost

all

human

devices

in

mechanism

is

absent—the

wheel

is

absent;

among

all

the

things

they

brought

to

earth

there

is

no

trace

or

suggestion

of

their

use

of

wheels.

One

would

have

at

least

expected

it

in

locomotion.

And

in

this

connection

it

is

curious

to

remark

that

even

on

this

earth

Nature

has

never

hit

upon

the

wheel,

or

has

preferred

other

expedients

to

its

development.

And

not

only

did

the

Martians

either

not

know

of

(which

is

incredible),

or

abstain

from,

the

wheel,

but

in

their

apparatus

singularly

little

use

is

made

of

the

fixed

pivot

or

relatively

fixed

pivot,

with

circular

motions

thereabout

confined

to

one

plane.

Almost

all

the

joints

of

the

machinery

present

a

complicated

system

of

sliding

parts

moving

over

small

but

beautifully

curved

friction

bearings.

And

while

upon

this

matter

of

detail,

it

is

remarkable

that

the

long

leverages

of

their

machines

are

in

most

cases

actuated

by

a

sort

of

sham

musculature

of

the

disks

in

an

elastic

sheath;

these

disks

become

polarised

and

drawn

closely

and

powerfully

together

when

traversed

by

a

current

of

electricity.

In

this

way

the

curious

parallelism

to

animal

motions,

which

was

so

striking

and

disturbing

to

the

human

beholder,

was

attained.

Such

quasi-muscles

abounded

in

the

crablike

handling-machine

which,

on

my

first

peeping

out

of

the

slit,

I

watched

unpacking

the

cylinder.

It

seemed

infinitely

more

alive

than

the

actual

Martians

lying

beyond

it

in

the

sunset

light,

panting,

stirring

ineffectual

tentacles,

and

moving

feebly

after

their

vast

journey

across

space.

While

I

was

still

watching

their

sluggish

motions

in

the

sunlight,

and

noting

each

strange

detail

of

their

form,

the

curate

reminded

me

of

his

presence

by

pulling

violently

at

my

arm.

I

turned

to

a

scowling

face,

and

silent,

eloquent

lips.

He

wanted

the

slit,

which

permitted

only

one

of

us

to

peep

through;

and

so

I

had

to

forego

watching

them

for

a

time

while

he

enjoyed

that

privilege.

When

I

looked

again,

the

busy

handling-machine

had

already

put

together

several

of

the

pieces

of

apparatus

it

had

taken

out

of

the

cylinder

into

a

shape

having

an

unmistakable

likeness

to

its

own;

and

down

on

the

left

a

busy

little

digging

mechanism

had

come

into

view,

emitting

jets

of

green

vapour

and

working

its

way

round

the

pit,

excavating

and

embanking

in

a

methodical

and

discriminating

manner.

This

it

was

which

had

caused

the

regular

beating

noise,

and

the

rhythmic

shocks

that

had

kept

our

ruinous

refuge

quivering.

It

piped

and

whistled

as

it

worked.

So

far

as

I

could

see,

the

thing

was

without

a

directing

Martian

at

all.

III.

THE

DAYS

OF

IMPRISONMENT.

The

arrival

of

a

second

fighting-machine

drove

us

from

our

peephole

into

the

scullery,

for

we

feared

that

from

his

elevation

the

Martian

might

see

down

upon

us

behind

our

barrier.

At

a

later

date

we

began

to

feel

less

in

danger

of

their

eyes,

for

to

an

eye

in

the

dazzle

of

the

sunlight

outside

our

refuge

must

have

been

blank

blackness,

but

at

first

the

slightest

suggestion

of

approach

drove

us

into

the

scullery

in

heart-throbbing

retreat.

Yet

terrible

as

was

the

danger

we

incurred,

the

attraction

of

peeping

was

for

both

of

us

irresistible.

And

I

recall

now

with

a

sort

of

wonder

that,

in

spite

of

the

infinite

danger

in

which

we

were

between

starvation

and

a

still

more

terrible

death,

we

could

yet

struggle

bitterly

for

that

horrible

privilege

of

sight.

We

would

race

across

the

kitchen

in

a

grotesque

way

between

eagerness

and

the

dread

of

making

a

noise,

and

strike

each

other,

and

thrust

and

kick,

within

a

few

inches

of

exposure.

The

fact

is

that

we

had

absolutely

incompatible

dispositions

and

habits

of

thought

and

action,

and

our

danger

and

isolation

only

accentuated

the

incompatibility.

At

Halliford

I

had

already

come

to

hate

the

curate’s

trick

of

helpless

exclamation,

his

stupid

rigidity

of

mind.

His

endless

muttering

monologue

vitiated

every

effort

I

made

to

think

out

a

line

of

action,

and

drove

me

at

times,

thus

pent

up

and

intensified,

almost

to

the

verge

of

craziness.

He

was

as

lacking

in

restraint

as

a

silly

woman.

He

would

weep

for

hours

together,

and

I

verily

believe

that

to

the

very

end

this

spoiled

child

of

life

thought

his

weak

tears

in

some

way

efficacious.

And

I

would

sit

in

the

darkness

unable

to

keep

my

mind

off

him

by

reason

of

his

importunities.

He

ate

more

than

I

did,

and

it

was

in

vain

I

pointed

out

that

our

only

chance

of

life

was

to

stop

in

the

house

until

the

Martians

had

done

with

their

pit,

that

in

that

long

patience

a

time

might

presently

come

when

we

should

need

food.

He

ate

and

drank

impulsively

in

heavy

meals

at

long

intervals.

He

slept

little.

As

the

days

wore

on,

his

utter

carelessness

of

any

consideration

so

intensified

our

distress

and

danger

that

I

had,

much

as

I

loathed

doing

it,

to

resort

to

threats,

and

at

last

to

blows.

That

brought

him

to

reason

for

a

time.

But

he

was

one

of

those

weak

creatures,

void

of

pride,

timorous,

anæmic,

hateful

souls,

full

of

shifty

cunning,

who

face

neither

God

nor

man,

who

face

not

even

themselves.

It

is

disagreeable

for

me

to

recall

and

write

these

things,

but

I

set

them

down

that

my

story

may

lack

nothing.

Those

who

have

escaped

the

dark

and

terrible

aspects

of

life

will

find

my

brutality,

my

flash

of

rage

in

our

final

tragedy,

easy

enough

to

blame;

for

they

know

what

is

wrong

as

well

as

any,

but

not

what

is

possible

to

tortured

men.

But

those

who

have

been

under

the

shadow,

who

have

gone

down

at

last

to

elemental

things,

will

have

a

wider

charity.

And

while

within

we

fought

out

our

dark,

dim

contest

of

whispers,

snatched

food

and

drink,

and

gripping

hands

and

blows,

without,

in

the

pitiless

sunlight

of

that

terrible

June,

was

the

strange

wonder,

the

unfamiliar

routine

of

the

Martians

in

the

pit.

Let

me

return

to

those

first

new

experiences

of

mine.

After

a

long

time

I

ventured

back

to

the

peephole,

to

find

that

the

new-comers

had

been

reinforced

by

the

occupants

of

no

fewer

than

three

of

the

fighting-machines.

These

last

had

brought

with

them

certain

fresh

appliances

that

stood

in

an

orderly

manner

about

the

cylinder.

The

second

handling-machine

was

now

completed,

and

was

busied

in

serving

one

of

the

novel

contrivances

the

big

machine

had

brought.

This

was

a

body

resembling

a

milk

can

in

its

general

form,

above

which

oscillated

a

pear-shaped

receptacle,

and

from

which

a

stream

of

white

powder

flowed

into

a

circular

basin

below.

The

oscillatory

motion

was

imparted

to

this

by

one

tentacle

of

the

handling-machine.

With

two

spatulate

hands

the

handling-machine

was

digging

out

and

flinging

masses

of

clay

into

the

pear-shaped

receptacle

above,

while

with

another

arm

it

periodically

opened

a

door

and

removed

rusty

and

blackened

clinkers

from

the

middle

part

of

the

machine.

Another

steely

tentacle

directed

the

powder

from

the

basin

along

a

ribbed

channel

towards

some

receiver

that

was

hidden

from

me

by

the

mound

of

bluish

dust.

From

this

unseen

receiver

a

little

thread

of

green

smoke

rose

vertically

into

the

quiet

air.

As

I

looked,

the

handling-machine,

with

a

faint

and

musical

clinking,

extended,

telescopic

fashion,

a

tentacle

that

had

been

a

moment

before

a

mere

blunt

projection,

until

its

end

was

hidden

behind

the

mound

of

clay.

In

another

second

it

had

lifted

a

bar

of

white

aluminium

into

sight,

untarnished

as

yet,

and

shining

dazzlingly,

and

deposited

it

in

a

growing

stack

of

bars

that

stood

at

the

side

of

the

pit.

Between

sunset

and

starlight

this

dexterous

machine

must

have

made

more

than

a

hundred

such

bars

out

of

the

crude

clay,

and

the

mound

of

bluish

dust

rose

steadily

until

it

topped

the

side

of

the

pit.

The

contrast

between

the

swift

and

complex

movements

of

these

contrivances

and

the

inert

panting

clumsiness

of

their

masters

was

acute,

and

for

days

I

had

to

tell

myself

repeatedly

that

these

latter

were

indeed

the

living

of

the

two

things.

The

curate

had

possession

of

the

slit

when

the

first

men

were

brought

to

the

pit.

I

was

sitting

below,

huddled

up,

listening

with

all

my

ears.

He

made

a

sudden

movement

backward,

and

I,

fearful

that

we

were

observed,

crouched

in

a

spasm

of

terror.

He

came

sliding

down

the

rubbish

and

crept

beside

me

in

the

darkness,

inarticulate,

gesticulating,

and

for

a

moment

I

shared

his

panic.

His

gesture

suggested

a

resignation

of

the

slit,

and

after

a

little

while

my

curiosity

gave

me

courage,

and

I

rose

up,

stepped

across

him,

and

clambered

up

to

it.

At

first

I

could

see

no

reason

for

his

frantic

behaviour.

The

twilight

had

now

come,

the

stars

were

little

and

faint,

but

the

pit

was

illuminated

by

the

flickering

green

fire

that

came

from

the

aluminium-making.

The

whole

picture

was

a

flickering

scheme

of

green

gleams

and

shifting

rusty

black

shadows,

strangely

trying

to

the

eyes.

Over

and

through

it

all

went

the

bats,

heeding

it

not

at

all.

The

sprawling

Martians

were

no

longer

to

be

seen,

the

mound

of

blue-green

powder

had

risen

to

cover

them

from

sight,

and

a

fighting-machine,

with

its

legs

contracted,

crumpled,

and

abbreviated,

stood

across

the

corner

of

the

pit.

And

then,

amid

the

clangour

of

the

machinery,

came

a

drifting

suspicion

of

human

voices,

that

I

entertained

at

first

only

to

dismiss.

I

crouched,

watching

this

fighting-machine

closely,

satisfying

myself

now

for

the

first

time

that

the

hood

did

indeed

contain

a

Martian.

As

the

green

flames

lifted

I

could

see

the

oily

gleam

of

his

integument

and

the

brightness

of

his

eyes.

And

suddenly

I

heard

a

yell,

and

saw

a

long

tentacle

reaching

over

the

shoulder

of

the

machine

to

the

little

cage

that

hunched

upon

its

back.

Then

something—something

struggling

violently—was

lifted

high

against

the

sky,

a

black,

vague

enigma

against

the

starlight;

and

as

this

black

object

came

down

again,

I

saw

by

the

green

brightness

that

it

was

a

man.

For

an

instant

he

was

clearly

visible.

He

was

a

stout,

ruddy,

middle-aged

man,

well

dressed;

three

days

before,

he

must

have

been

walking

the

world,

a

man

of

considerable

consequence.

I

could

see

his

staring

eyes

and

gleams

of

light

on

his

studs

and

watch

chain.

He

vanished

behind

the

mound,

and

for

a

moment

there

was

silence.

And

then

began

a

shrieking

and

a

sustained

and

cheerful

hooting

from

the

Martians.

I

slid

down

the

rubbish,

struggled

to

my

feet,

clapped

my

hands

over

my

ears,

and

bolted

into

the

scullery.

The

curate,

who

had

been

crouching

silently

with

his

arms

over

his

head,

looked

up

as

I

passed,

cried

out

quite

loudly

at

my

desertion

of

him,

and

came

running

after

me.

That

night,

as

we

lurked

in

the

scullery,

balanced

between

our

horror

and

the

terrible

fascination

this

peeping

had,

although

I

felt

an

urgent

need

of

action

I

tried

in

vain

to

conceive

some

plan

of

escape;

but

afterwards,

during

the

second

day,

I

was

able

to

consider

our

position

with

great

clearness.

The

curate,

I

found,

was

quite

incapable

of

discussion;

this

new

and

culminating

atrocity

had

robbed

him

of

all

vestiges

of

reason

or

forethought.

Practically

he

had

already

sunk

to

the

level

of

an

animal.

But

as

the

saying

goes,

I

gripped

myself

with

both

hands.

It

grew

upon

my

mind,

once

I

could

face

the

facts,

that

terrible

as

our

position

was,

there

was

as

yet

no

justification

for

absolute

despair.

Our

chief

chance

lay

in

the

possibility

of

the

Martians

making

the

pit

nothing

more

than

a

temporary

encampment.

Or

even

if

they

kept

it

permanently,

they

might

not

consider

it

necessary

to

guard

it,

and

a

chance

of

escape

might

be

afforded

us.

I

also

weighed

very

carefully

the

possibility

of

our

digging

a

way

out

in

a

direction

away

from

the

pit,

but

the

chances

of

our

emerging

within

sight

of

some

sentinel

fighting-machine

seemed

at

first

too

great.

And

I

should

have

had

to

do

all

the

digging

myself.

The

curate

would

certainly

have

failed

me.

It

was

on

the

third

day,

if

my

memory

serves

me

right,

that

I

saw

the

lad

killed.

It

was

the

only

occasion

on

which

I

actually

saw

the

Martians

feed.

After

that

experience

I

avoided

the

hole

in

the

wall

for

the

better

part

of

a

day.

I

went

into

the

scullery,

removed

the

door,

and

spent

some

hours

digging

with

my

hatchet

as

silently

as

possible;

but

when

I

had

made

a

hole

about

a

couple

of

feet

deep

the

loose

earth

collapsed

noisily,

and

I

did

not

dare

continue.

I

lost

heart,

and

lay

down

on

the

scullery

floor

for

a

long

time,

having

no

spirit

even

to

move.

And

after

that

I

abandoned

altogether

the

idea

of

escaping

by

excavation.

It

says

much

for

the

impression

the

Martians

had

made

upon

me

that

at

first

I

entertained

little

or

no

hope

of

our

escape

being

brought

about

by

their

overthrow

through

any

human

effort.

But

on

the

fourth

or

fifth

night

I

heard

a

sound

like

heavy

guns.

It

was

very

late

in

the

night,

and

the

moon

was

shining

brightly.

The

Martians

had

taken

away

the

excavating-machine,

and,

save

for

a

fighting-machine

that

stood

in

the

remoter

bank

of

the

pit

and

a

handling-machine

that

was

buried

out

of

my

sight

in

a

corner

of

the

pit

immediately

beneath

my

peephole,

the

place

was

deserted

by

them.

Except

for

the

pale

glow

from

the

handling-machine

and

the

bars

and

patches

of

white

moonlight

the

pit

was

in

darkness,

and,

except

for

the

clinking

of

the

handling-machine,

quite

still.

That

night

was

a

beautiful

serenity;

save

for

one

planet,

the

moon

seemed

to

have

the

sky

to

herself.

I

heard

a

dog

howling,

and

that

familiar

sound

it

was

that

made

me

listen.

Then

I

heard

quite

distinctly

a

booming

exactly

like

the

sound

of

great

guns.

Six

distinct

reports

I

counted,

and

after

a

long

interval

six

again.

And

that

was

all.

VI.

THE

DEATH

OF

THE

CURATE.

It

was

on

the

sixth

day

of

our

imprisonment

that

I

peeped

for

the

last

time,

and

presently

found

myself

alone.

Instead

of

keeping

close

to

me

and

trying

to

oust

me

from

the

slit,

the

curate

had

gone

back

into

the

scullery.

I

was

struck

by

a

sudden

thought.

I

went

back

quickly

and

quietly

into

the

scullery.

In

the

darkness

I

heard

the

curate

drinking.

I

snatched

in

the

darkness,

and

my

fingers

caught

a

bottle

of

burgundy.

For

a

few

minutes

there

was

a

tussle.

The

bottle

struck

the

floor

and

broke,

and

I

desisted

and

rose.

We

stood

panting

and

threatening

each

other.

In

the

end

I

planted

myself

between

him

and

the

food,

and

told

him

of

my

determination

to

begin

a

discipline.

I

divided

the

food

in

the

pantry,

into

rations

to

last

us

ten

days.

I

would

not

let

him

eat

any

more

that

day.

In

the

afternoon

he

made

a

feeble

effort

to

get

at

the

food.

I

had

been

dozing,

but

in

an

instant

I

was

awake.

All

day

and

all

night

we

sat

face

to

face,

I

weary

but

resolute,

and

he

weeping

and

complaining

of

his

immediate

hunger.

It

was,

I

know,

a

night

and

a

day,

but

to

me

it

seemed—it

seems

now—an

interminable

length

of

time.

And

so

our

widened

incompatibility

ended

at

last

in

open

conflict.

For

two

vast

days

we

struggled

in

undertones

and

wrestling

contests.

There

were

times

when

I

beat

and

kicked

him

madly,

times

when

I

cajoled

and

persuaded

him,

and

once

I

tried

to

bribe

him

with

the

last

bottle

of

burgundy,

for

there

was

a

rain-water

pump

from

which

I

could

get

water.

But

neither

force

nor

kindness

availed;

he

was

indeed

beyond

reason.

He

would

neither

desist

from

his

attacks

on

the

food

nor

from

his

noisy

babbling

to

himself.

The

rudimentary

precautions

to

keep

our

imprisonment

endurable

he

would

not

observe.

Slowly

I

began

to

realise

the

complete

overthrow

of

his

intelligence,

to

perceive

that

my

sole

companion

in

this

close

and

sickly

darkness

was

a

man

insane.

From

certain

vague

memories

I

am

inclined

to

think

my

own

mind

wandered

at

times.

I

had

strange

and

hideous

dreams

whenever

I

slept.

It

sounds

paradoxical,

but

I

am

inclined

to

think

that

the

weakness

and

insanity

of

the

curate

warned

me,

braced

me,

and

kept

me

a

sane

man.

On

the

eighth

day

he

began

to

talk

aloud

instead

of

whispering,

and

nothing

I

could

do

would

moderate

his

speech.

“It

is

just,

O

God!”

he

would

say,

over

and

over

again.

“It

is

just.

On

me

and

mine

be

the

punishment

laid.

We

have

sinned,

we

have

fallen

short.

There

was

poverty,

sorrow;

the

poor

were

trodden

in

the

dust,

and

I

held

my

peace.

I

preached

acceptable

folly—my

God,

what

folly!—when

I

should

have

stood

up,

though

I

died

for

it,

and

called

upon

them

to

repent—repent!

.

.

.

Oppressors

of

the

poor

and

needy

.

.

.

!

The

wine

press

of

God!”

Then

he

would

suddenly

revert

to

the

matter

of

the

food

I

withheld

from

him,

praying,

begging,

weeping,

at

last

threatening.

He

began

to

raise

his

voice—I

prayed

him

not

to.

He

perceived

a

hold

on

me—he

threatened

he

would

shout

and

bring

the

Martians

upon

us.

For

a

time

that

scared

me;

but

any

concession

would

have

shortened

our

chance

of

escape

beyond

estimating.

I

defied

him,

although

I

felt

no

assurance

that

he

might

not

do

this

thing.

But

that

day,

at

any

rate,

he

did

not.

He

talked

with

his

voice

rising

slowly,

through

the

greater

part

of

the

eighth

and

ninth

days—threats,

entreaties,

mingled

with

a

torrent

of

half-sane

and

always

frothy

repentance

for

his

vacant

sham

of

God’s

service,

such

as

made

me

pity

him.

Then

he

slept

awhile,

and

began

again

with

renewed

strength,

so

loudly

that

I

must

needs

make

him

desist.

“Be

still!”

I

implored.

He

rose

to

his

knees,

for

he

had

been

sitting

in

the

darkness

near

the

copper.

“I

have

been

still

too

long,”

he

said,

in

a

tone

that

must

have

reached

the

pit,

“and

now

I

must

bear

my

witness.

Woe

unto

this

unfaithful

city!

Woe!

Woe!

Woe!

Woe!

Woe!

To

the

inhabitants

of

the

earth

by

reason

of

the

other

voices

of

the

trumpet——”

“Shut

up!”

I

said,

rising

to

my

feet,

and

in

a

terror

lest

the

Martians

should

hear

us.

“For

God’s

sake——”

“Nay,”

shouted

the

curate,

at

the

top

of

his

voice,

standing

likewise

and

extending

his

arms.

“Speak!

The

word

of

the

Lord

is

upon

me!”

In

three

strides

he

was

at

the

door

leading

into

the

kitchen.

“I

must

bear

my

witness!

I

go!

It

has

already

been

too

long

delayed.”

I

put

out

my

hand

and

felt

the

meat

chopper

hanging

to

the

wall.

In

a

flash

I

was

after

him.

I

was

fierce

with

fear.

Before

he

was

halfway

across

the

kitchen

I

had

overtaken

him.

With

one

last

touch

of

humanity

I

turned

the

blade

back

and

struck

him

with

the

butt.

He

went

headlong

forward

and

lay

stretched

on

the

ground.

I

stumbled

over

him

and

stood

panting.

He

lay

still.

Suddenly

I

heard

a

noise

without,

the

run

and

smash

of

slipping

plaster,

and

the

triangular

aperture

in

the

wall

was

darkened.

I

looked

up

and

saw

the

lower

surface

of

a

handling-machine

coming

slowly

across

the

hole.

One

of

its

gripping

limbs

curled

amid

the

debris;

another

limb

appeared,

feeling

its

way

over

the

fallen

beams.

I

stood

petrified,

staring.

Then

I

saw

through

a

sort

of

glass

plate

near

the

edge

of

the

body

the

face,

as

we

may

call

it,

and

the

large

dark

eyes

of

a

Martian,

peering,

and

then

a

long

metallic

snake

of

tentacle

came

feeling

slowly

through

the

hole.

I

turned

by

an

effort,

stumbled

over

the

curate,

and

stopped

at

the

scullery

door.

The

tentacle

was

now

some

way,

two

yards

or

more,

in

the

room,

and

twisting

and

turning,

with

queer

sudden

movements,

this

way

and

that.

For

a

while

I

stood

fascinated

by

that

slow,

fitful

advance.

Then,

with

a

faint,

hoarse

cry,

I

forced

myself

across

the

scullery.

I

trembled

violently;

I

could

scarcely

stand

upright.

I

opened

the

door

of

the

coal

cellar,

and

stood

there

in

the

darkness

staring

at

the

faintly

lit

doorway

into

the

kitchen,

and

listening.

Had

the

Martian

seen

me?

What

was

it

doing

now?

Something

was

moving

to

and

fro

there,

very

quietly;

every

now

and

then

it

tapped

against

the

wall,

or

started

on

its

movements

with

a

faint

metallic

ringing,

like

the

movements

of

keys

on

a

split-ring.

Then

a

heavy

body—I

knew

too

well

what—was

dragged

across

the

floor

of

the

kitchen

towards

the

opening.

Irresistibly

attracted,

I

crept

to

the

door

and

peeped

into

the

kitchen.

In

the

triangle

of

bright

outer

sunlight

I

saw

the

Martian,

in

its

Briareus

of

a

handling-machine,

scrutinizing

the

curate’s

head.

I

thought

at

once

that

it

would

infer

my

presence

from

the

mark

of

the

blow

I

had

given

him.

I

crept

back

to

the

coal

cellar,

shut

the

door,

and

began

to

cover

myself

up

as

much

as

I

could,

and

as

noiselessly

as

possible

in

the

darkness,

among

the

firewood

and

coal

therein.

Every

now

and

then

I

paused,

rigid,

to

hear

if

the

Martian

had

thrust

its

tentacles

through

the

opening

again.

Then

the

faint

metallic

jingle

returned.

I

traced

it

slowly

feeling

over

the

kitchen.

Presently

I

heard

it

nearer—in

the

scullery,

as

I

judged.

I

thought

that

its

length

might

be

insufficient

to

reach

me.

I

prayed

copiously.

It

passed,

scraping

faintly

across

the

cellar

door.

An

age

of

almost

intolerable

suspense

intervened;

then

I

heard

it

fumbling

at

the

latch!

It

had

found

the

door!

The

Martians

understood

doors!

It

worried

at

the

catch

for

a

minute,

perhaps,

and

then

the

door

opened.

In

the

darkness

I

could

just

see

the

thing—like

an

elephant’s

trunk

more

than

anything

else—waving

towards

me

and

touching

and

examining

the

wall,

coals,

wood

and

ceiling.

It

was

like

a

black

worm

swaying

its

blind

head

to

and

fro.

Once,

even,

it

touched

the

heel

of

my

boot.

I

was

on

the

verge

of

screaming;

I

bit

my

hand.

For

a

time

the

tentacle

was

silent.

I

could

have

fancied

it

had

been

withdrawn.

Presently,

with

an

abrupt

click,

it

gripped

something—I

thought

it

had

me!—and

seemed

to

go

out

of

the

cellar

again.

For

a

minute

I

was

not

sure.

Apparently

it

had

taken

a

lump

of

coal

to

examine.

I

seized

the

opportunity

of

slightly

shifting

my

position,

which

had

become

cramped,

and

then

listened.

I

whispered

passionate

prayers

for

safety.

Then

I

heard

the

slow,

deliberate

sound

creeping

towards

me

again.

Slowly,

slowly

it

drew

near,

scratching

against

the

walls

and

tapping

the

furniture.

While

I

was

still

doubtful,

it

rapped

smartly

against

the

cellar

door

and

closed

it.

I

heard

it

go

into

the

pantry,

and

the

biscuit-tins

rattled

and

a

bottle

smashed,

and

then

came

a

heavy

bump

against

the

cellar

door.

Then

silence

that

passed

into

an

infinity

of

suspense.

Had

it

gone?

At

last

I

decided

that

it

had.

It

came

into

the

scullery

no

more;

but

I

lay

all

the

tenth

day

in

the

close

darkness,

buried

among

coals

and

firewood,

not

daring

even

to

crawl

out

for

the

drink

for

which

I

craved.

It

was

the

eleventh

day

before

I

ventured

so

far

from

my

security.

V.

THE

STILLNESS.

My

first

act

before

I

went

into

the

pantry

was

to

fasten

the

door

between

the

kitchen

and

the

scullery.

But

the

pantry

was

empty;

every

scrap

of

food

had

gone.

Apparently,

the

Martian

had

taken

it

all

on

the

previous

day.

At

that

discovery

I

despaired

for

the

first

time.

I

took

no

food,

or

no

drink

either,

on

the

eleventh

or

the

twelfth

day.

At

first

my

mouth

and

throat

were

parched,

and

my

strength

ebbed

sensibly.

I

sat

about

in

the

darkness

of

the

scullery,

in

a

state

of

despondent

wretchedness.

My

mind

ran

on

eating.

I

thought

I

had

become

deaf,

for

the

noises

of

movement

I

had

been

accustomed

to

hear

from

the

pit

had

ceased

absolutely.

I

did

not

feel

strong

enough

to

crawl

noiselessly

to

the

peephole,

or

I

would

have

gone

there.

On

the

twelfth

day

my

throat

was

so

painful

that,

taking

the

chance

of

alarming

the

Martians,

I

attacked

the

creaking

rain-water

pump

that

stood

by

the

sink,

and

got

a

couple

of

glassfuls

of

blackened

and

tainted

rain

water.

I

was

greatly

refreshed

by

this,

and

emboldened

by

the

fact

that

no

enquiring

tentacle

followed

the

noise

of

my

pumping.

During

these

days,

in

a

rambling,

inconclusive

way,

I

thought

much

of

the

curate

and

of

the

manner

of

his

death.

On

the

thirteenth

day

I

drank

some

more

water,

and

dozed

and

thought

disjointedly

of

eating

and

of

vague

impossible

plans

of

escape.

Whenever

I

dozed

I

dreamt

of

horrible

phantasms,

of

the

death

of

the

curate,

or

of

sumptuous

dinners;

but,

asleep

or

awake,

I

felt

a

keen

pain

that

urged

me

to

drink

again

and

again.

The

light

that

came

into

the

scullery

was

no

longer

grey,

but

red.

To

my

disordered

imagination

it

seemed

the

colour

of

blood.

On

the

fourteenth

day

I

went

into

the

kitchen,

and

I

was

surprised

to

find

that

the

fronds

of

the

red

weed

had

grown

right

across

the

hole

in

the

wall,

turning

the

half-light

of

the

place

into

a

crimson-coloured

obscurity.

It

was

early

on

the

fifteenth

day

that

I

heard

a

curious,

familiar

sequence

of

sounds

in

the

kitchen,

and,

listening,

identified

it

as

the

snuffing

and

scratching

of

a

dog.

Going

into

the

kitchen,

I

saw

a

dog’s

nose

peering

in

through

a

break

among

the

ruddy

fronds.

This

greatly

surprised

me.

At

the

scent

of

me

he

barked

shortly.

I

thought

if

I

could

induce

him

to

come

into

the

place

quietly

I

should

be

able,

perhaps,

to

kill

and

eat

him;

and

in

any

case,

it

would

be

advisable

to

kill

him,

lest

his

actions

attracted

the

attention

of

the

Martians.

I

crept

forward,

saying

“Good

dog!”

very

softly;

but

he

suddenly

withdrew

his

head

and

disappeared.

I

listened—I

was

not

deaf—but

certainly

the

pit

was

still.

I

heard

a

sound

like

the

flutter

of

a

bird’s

wings,

and

a

hoarse

croaking,

but

that

was

all.

For

a

long

while

I

lay

close

to

the

peephole,

but

not

daring

to

move

aside

the

red

plants

that

obscured

it.

Once

or

twice

I

heard

a

faint

pitter-patter

like

the

feet

of

the

dog

going

hither

and

thither

on

the

sand

far

below

me,

and

there

were

more

birdlike

sounds,

but

that

was

all.

At

length,

encouraged

by

the

silence,

I

looked

out.

Except

in

the

corner,

where

a

multitude

of

crows

hopped

and

fought

over

the

skeletons

of

the

dead

the

Martians

had

consumed,

there

was

not

a

living

thing

in

the

pit.

I

stared

about

me,

scarcely

believing

my

eyes.

All

the

machinery

had

gone.

Save

for

the

big

mound

of

greyish-blue

powder

in

one

corner,

certain

bars

of

aluminium

in

another,

the

black

birds,

and

the

skeletons

of

the

killed,

the

place

was

merely

an

empty

circular

pit

in

the

sand.

Slowly

I

thrust

myself

out

through

the

red

weed,

and

stood

upon

the

mound

of

rubble.

I

could

see

in

any

direction

save

behind

me,

to

the

north,

and

neither

Martians

nor

sign

of

Martians

were

to

be

seen.

The

pit

dropped

sheerly

from

my

feet,

but

a

little

way

along

the

rubbish

afforded

a

practicable

slope

to

the

summit

of

the

ruins.

My

chance

of

escape

had

come.

I

began

to

tremble.

I

hesitated

for

some

time,

and

then,

in

a

gust

of

desperate

resolution,

and

with

a

heart

that

throbbed

violently,

I

scrambled

to

the

top

of

the

mound

in

which

I

had

been

buried

so

long.

I

looked

about

again.

To

the

northward,

too,

no

Martian

was

visible.

When

I

had

last

seen

this

part

of

Sheen

in

the

daylight

it

had

been

a

straggling

street

of

comfortable

white

and

red

houses,

interspersed

with

abundant

shady

trees.

Now

I

stood

on

a

mound

of

smashed

brickwork,

clay,

and

gravel,

over

which

spread

a

multitude

of

red

cactus-shaped

plants,

knee-high,

without

a

solitary

terrestrial

growth

to

dispute

their

footing.

The

trees

near

me

were

dead

and

brown,

but

further

a

network

of

red

thread

scaled

the

still

living

stems.

The

neighbouring

houses

had

all

been

wrecked,

but

none

had

been

burned;

their

walls

stood,

sometimes

to

the

second

story,

with

smashed

windows

and

shattered

doors.

The

red

weed

grew

tumultuously

in

their

roofless

rooms.

Below

me

was

the

great

pit,

with

the

crows

struggling

for

its

refuse.

A

number

of

other

birds

hopped

about

among

the

ruins.

Far

away

I

saw

a

gaunt

cat

slink

crouchingly

along

a

wall,

but

traces

of

men

there

were

none.

The

day

seemed,

by

contrast

with

my

recent

confinement,

dazzlingly

bright,

the

sky

a

glowing

blue.

A

gentle

breeze

kept

the

red

weed

that

covered

every

scrap

of

unoccupied

ground

gently

swaying.

And

oh!

the

sweetness

of

the

air!

VI.

THE

WORK

OF

FIFTEEN

DAYS.

For

some

time

I

stood

tottering

on

the

mound

regardless

of

my

safety.

Within

that

noisome

den

from

which

I

had

emerged

I

had

thought

with

a

narrow

intensity

only

of

our

immediate

security.

I

had

not

realised

what

had

been

happening

to

the

world,

had

not

anticipated

this

startling

vision

of

unfamiliar

things.

I

had

expected

to

see

Sheen

in

ruins—I

found

about

me

the

landscape,

weird

and

lurid,

of

another

planet.

For

that

moment

I

touched

an

emotion

beyond

the

common

range

of

men,

yet

one

that

the

poor

brutes

we

dominate

know

only

too

well.

I

felt

as

a

rabbit

might

feel

returning

to

his

burrow

and

suddenly

confronted

by

the

work

of

a

dozen

busy

navvies

digging

the

foundations

of

a

house.

I

felt

the

first

inkling

of

a

thing

that

presently

grew

quite

clear

in

my

mind,

that

oppressed

me

for

many

days,

a

sense

of

dethronement,

a

persuasion

that

I

was

no

longer

a

master,

but

an

animal

among

the

animals,

under

the

Martian

heel.

With

us

it

would

be

as

with

them,

to

lurk

and

watch,

to

run

and

hide;

the

fear

and

empire

of

man

had

passed

away.

But

so

soon

as

this

strangeness

had

been

realised

it

passed,

and

my

dominant

motive

became

the

hunger

of

my

long

and

dismal

fast.

In

the

direction

away

from

the

pit

I

saw,

beyond

a

red-covered

wall,

a

patch

of

garden

ground

unburied.

This

gave

me

a

hint,

and

I

went

knee-deep,

and

sometimes

neck-deep,

in

the

red

weed.

The

density

of

the

weed

gave

me

a

reassuring

sense

of

hiding.

The

wall

was

some

six

feet

high,

and

when

I

attempted

to

clamber

it

I

found

I

could

not

lift

my

feet

to

the

crest.

So

I

went

along

by

the

side

of

it,

and

came

to

a

corner

and

a

rockwork

that

enabled

me

to

get

to

the

top,

and

tumble

into

the

garden

I

coveted.

Here

I

found

some

young

onions,

a

couple

of

gladiolus

bulbs,

and

a

quantity

of

immature

carrots,

all

of

which

I

secured,

and,

scrambling

over

a

ruined

wall,

went

on

my

way

through

scarlet

and

crimson

trees

towards

Kew—it

was

like

walking

through

an

avenue

of

gigantic

blood

drops—possessed

with

two

ideas:

to

get

more

food,

and

to

limp,

as

soon

and

as

far

as

my

strength

permitted,

out

of

this

accursed

unearthly

region

of

the

pit.

Some

way

farther,

in

a

grassy

place,

was

a

group

of

mushrooms

which

also

I

devoured,

and

then

I

came

upon

a

brown

sheet

of

flowing

shallow

water,

where

meadows

used

to

be.

These

fragments

of

nourishment

served

only

to

whet

my

hunger.

At

first

I

was

surprised

at

this

flood

in

a

hot,

dry

summer,

but

afterwards

I

discovered

that

it

was

caused

by

the

tropical

exuberance

of

the

red

weed.

Directly

this

extraordinary

growth

encountered

water

it

straightway

became

gigantic

and

of

unparalleled

fecundity.

Its

seeds

were

simply

poured

down

into

the

water

of

the

Wey

and

Thames,

and

its

swiftly

growing

and

Titanic

water

fronds

speedily

choked

both

those

rivers.

At

Putney,

as

I

afterwards

saw,

the

bridge

was

almost

lost

in

a

tangle

of

this

weed,

and

at

Richmond,

too,

the

Thames

water

poured

in

a

broad

and

shallow

stream

across

the

meadows

of

Hampton

and

Twickenham.

As

the

water

spread

the

weed

followed

them,

until

the

ruined

villas

of

the

Thames

valley

were

for

a

time

lost

in

this

red

swamp,

whose

margin

I

explored,

and

much

of

the

desolation

the

Martians

had

caused

was

concealed.

In

the

end

the

red

weed

succumbed

almost

as

quickly

as

it

had

spread.

A

cankering

disease,

due,

it

is

believed,

to

the

action

of

certain

bacteria,

presently

seized

upon

it.

Now

by

the

action

of

natural

selection,

all

terrestrial

plants

have

acquired

a

resisting

power

against

bacterial

diseases—they

never

succumb

without

a

severe

struggle,

but

the

red

weed

rotted

like

a

thing

already

dead.

The

fronds

became

bleached,

and

then

shrivelled

and

brittle.

They

broke

off

at

the

least

touch,

and

the

waters

that

had

stimulated

their

early

growth

carried

their

last

vestiges

out

to

sea.

My

first

act

on

coming

to

this

water

was,

of

course,

to

slake

my

thirst.

I

drank

a

great

deal

of

it

and,

moved

by

an

impulse,

gnawed

some

fronds

of

red

weed;

but

they

were

watery,

and

had

a

sickly,

metallic

taste.

I

found

the

water

was

sufficiently

shallow

for

me

to

wade

securely,

although

the

red

weed

impeded

my

feet

a

little;

but

the

flood

evidently

got

deeper

towards

the

river,

and

I

turned

back

to

Mortlake.

I

managed

to

make

out

the

road

by

means

of

occasional

ruins

of

its

villas

and

fences

and

lamps,

and

so

presently

I

got

out

of

this

spate

and

made

my

way

to

the

hill

going

up

towards

Roehampton

and

came

out

on

Putney

Common.

Here

the

scenery

changed

from

the

strange

and

unfamiliar

to

the

wreckage

of

the

familiar:

patches

of

ground

exhibited

the

devastation

of

a

cyclone,

and

in

a

few

score

yards

I

would

come

upon

perfectly

undisturbed

spaces,

houses

with

their

blinds

trimly

drawn

and

doors

closed,

as

if

they

had

been

left

for

a

day

by

the

owners,

or

as

if

their

inhabitants

slept

within.

The

red

weed

was

less

abundant;

the

tall

trees

along

the

lane

were

free

from

the

red

creeper.

I

hunted

for

food

among

the

trees,

finding

nothing,

and

I

also

raided

a

couple

of

silent

houses,

but

they

had

already

been

broken

into

and

ransacked.

I

rested

for

the

remainder

of

the

daylight

in

a

shrubbery,

being,

in

my

enfeebled

condition,

too

fatigued

to

push

on.

All

this

time

I

saw

no

human

beings,

and

no

signs

of

the

Martians.

I

encountered

a

couple

of

hungry-looking

dogs,

but

both

hurried

circuitously

away

from

the

advances

I

made

them.

Near

Roehampton

I

had

seen

two

human

skeletons—not

bodies,

but

skeletons,

picked

clean—and

in

the

wood

by

me

I

found

the

crushed

and

scattered

bones

of

several

cats

and

rabbits

and

the

skull

of

a

sheep.

But

though

I

gnawed

parts

of

these

in

my

mouth,

there

was

nothing

to

be

got

from

them.

After

sunset

I

struggled

on

along

the

road

towards

Putney,

where

I

think

the

Heat-Ray

must

have

been

used

for

some

reason.

And

in

the

garden

beyond

Roehampton

I

got

a

quantity

of

immature

potatoes,

sufficient

to

stay

my

hunger.

From

this

garden

one

looked

down

upon

Putney

and

the

river.

The

aspect

of

the

place

in

the

dusk

was

singularly

desolate:

blackened

trees,

blackened,

desolate

ruins,

and

down

the

hill

the

sheets

of

the

flooded

river,

red-tinged

with

the

weed.

And

over

all—silence.

It

filled

me

with

indescribable

terror

to

think

how

swiftly

that

desolating

change

had

come.

For

a

time

I

believed

that

mankind

had

been

swept

out

of

existence,

and

that

I

stood

there

alone,

the

last

man

left

alive.

Hard

by

the

top

of

Putney

Hill

I

came

upon

another

skeleton,

with

the

arms

dislocated

and

removed

several

yards

from

the

rest

of

the

body.

As

I

proceeded

I

became

more

and

more

convinced

that

the

extermination

of

mankind

was,

save

for

such

stragglers

as

myself,

already

accomplished

in

this

part

of

the

world.

The

Martians,

I

thought,

had

gone

on

and

left

the

country

desolated,

seeking

food

elsewhere.

Perhaps

even

now

they

were

destroying

Berlin

or

Paris,

or

it

might

be

they

had

gone

northward.

VII.

THE

MAN

ON

PUTNEY

HILL.

I

spent

that

night

in

the

inn

that

stands

at

the

top

of

Putney

Hill,

sleeping

in

a

made

bed

for

the

first

time

since

my

flight

to

Leatherhead.

I

will

not

tell

the

needless

trouble

I

had

breaking

into

that

house—afterwards

I

found

the

front

door

was

on

the

latch—nor

how

I

ransacked

every

room

for

food,

until

just

on

the

verge

of

despair,

in

what

seemed

to

me

to

be

a

servant’s

bedroom,

I

found

a

rat-gnawed

crust

and

two

tins

of

pineapple.

The

place

had

been

already

searched

and

emptied.

In

the

bar

I

afterwards

found

some

biscuits

and

sandwiches

that

had

been

overlooked.

The

latter

I

could

not

eat,

they

were

too

rotten,

but

the

former

not

only

stayed

my

hunger,

but

filled

my

pockets.

I

lit

no

lamps,

fearing

some

Martian

might

come

beating

that

part

of

London

for

food

in

the

night.

Before

I

went

to

bed

I

had

an

interval

of

restlessness,

and

prowled

from

window

to

window,

peering

out

for

some

sign

of

these

monsters.

I

slept

little.

As

I

lay

in

bed

I

found

myself

thinking

consecutively—a

thing

I

do

not

remember

to

have

done

since

my

last

argument

with

the

curate.

During

all

the

intervening

time

my

mental

condition

had

been

a

hurrying

succession

of

vague

emotional

states

or

a

sort

of

stupid

receptivity.

But

in

the

night

my

brain,

reinforced,

I

suppose,

by

the

food

I

had

eaten,

grew

clear

again,

and

I

thought.

Three

things

struggled

for

possession

of

my

mind:

the

killing

of

the

curate,

the

whereabouts

of

the

Martians,

and

the

possible

fate

of

my

wife.

The

former

gave

me

no

sensation

of

horror

or

remorse

to

recall;

I

saw

it

simply

as

a

thing

done,

a

memory

infinitely

disagreeable

but

quite

without

the

quality

of

remorse.

I

saw

myself

then

as

I

see

myself

now,

driven

step

by

step

towards

that

hasty

blow,

the

creature

of

a

sequence

of

accidents

leading

inevitably

to

that.

I

felt

no

condemnation;

yet

the

memory,

static,

unprogressive,

haunted

me.

In

the

silence

of

the

night,

with

that

sense

of

the

nearness

of

God

that

sometimes

comes

into

the

stillness

and

the

darkness,

I

stood

my

trial,

my

only

trial,

for

that

moment

of

wrath

and

fear.

I

retraced

every

step

of

our

conversation

from

the

moment

when

I

had

found

him

crouching

beside

me,

heedless

of

my

thirst,

and

pointing

to

the

fire

and

smoke

that

streamed

up

from

the

ruins

of

Weybridge.

We

had

been

incapable

of

co-operation—grim

chance

had

taken

no

heed

of

that.

Had

I

foreseen,

I

should

have

left

him

at

Halliford.

But

I

did

not

foresee;

and

crime

is

to

foresee

and

do.

And

I

set

this

down

as

I

have

set

all

this

story

down,

as

it

was.

There

were

no

witnesses—all

these

things

I

might

have

concealed.

But

I

set

it

down,

and

the

reader

must

form

his

judgment

as

he

will.

And

when,

by

an

effort,

I

had

set

aside

that

picture

of

a

prostrate

body,

I

faced

the

problem

of

the

Martians

and

the

fate

of

my

wife.

For

the

former

I

had

no

data;

I

could

imagine

a

hundred

things,

and

so,

unhappily,

I

could

for

the

latter.

And

suddenly

that

night

became

terrible.

I

found

myself

sitting

up

in

bed,

staring

at

the

dark.

I

found

myself

praying

that

the

Heat-Ray

might

have

suddenly

and

painlessly

struck

her

out

of

being.

Since

the

night

of

my

return

from

Leatherhead

I

had

not

prayed.

I

had

uttered

prayers,

fetish

prayers,

had

prayed

as

heathens

mutter

charms

when

I

was

in

extremity;

but

now

I

prayed

indeed,

pleading

steadfastly

and

sanely,

face

to

face

with

the

darkness

of

God.

Strange

night!

Strangest

in

this,

that

so

soon

as

dawn

had

come,

I,

who

had

talked

with

God,

crept

out

of

the

house

like

a

rat

leaving

its

hiding

place—a

creature

scarcely

larger,

an

inferior

animal,

a

thing

that

for

any

passing

whim

of

our

masters

might

be

hunted

and

killed.

Perhaps

they

also

prayed

confidently

to

God.

Surely,

if

we

have

learned

nothing

else,

this

war

has

taught

us

pity—pity

for

those

witless

souls

that

suffer

our

dominion.

The

morning

was

bright

and

fine,

and

the

eastern

sky

glowed

pink,

and

was

fretted

with

little

golden

clouds.

In

the

road

that

runs

from

the

top

of

Putney

Hill

to

Wimbledon

was

a

number

of

poor

vestiges

of

the

panic

torrent

that

must

have

poured

Londonward

on

the

Sunday

night

after

the

fighting

began.

There

was

a

little

two-wheeled

cart

inscribed

with

the

name

of

Thomas

Lobb,

Greengrocer,

New

Malden,

with

a

smashed

wheel

and

an

abandoned

tin

trunk;

there

was

a

straw

hat

trampled

into

the

now

hardened

mud,

and

at

the

top

of

West

Hill

a

lot

of

blood-stained

glass

about

the

overturned

water

trough.

My

movements

were

languid,

my

plans

of

the

vaguest.

I

had

an

idea

of

going

to

Leatherhead,

though

I

knew

that

there

I

had

the

poorest

chance

of

finding

my

wife.

Certainly,

unless

death

had

overtaken

them

suddenly,

my

cousins

and

she

would

have

fled

thence;

but

it

seemed

to

me

I

might

find

or

learn

there

whither

the

Surrey

people

had

fled.

I

knew

I

wanted

to

find

my

wife,

that

my

heart

ached

for

her

and

the

world

of

men,

but

I

had

no

clear

idea

how

the

finding

might

be

done.

I

was

also

sharply

aware

now

of

my

intense

loneliness.

From

the

corner

I

went,

under

cover

of

a

thicket

of

trees

and

bushes,

to

the

edge

of

Wimbledon

Common,

stretching

wide

and

far.

That

dark

expanse

was

lit

in

patches

by

yellow

gorse

and

broom;

there

was

no

red

weed

to

be

seen,

and

as

I

prowled,

hesitating,

on

the

verge

of

the

open,

the

sun

rose,

flooding

it

all

with

light

and

vitality.

I

came

upon

a

busy

swarm

of

little

frogs

in

a

swampy

place

among

the

trees.

I

stopped

to

look

at

them,

drawing

a

lesson

from

their

stout

resolve

to

live.

And

presently,

turning

suddenly,

with

an

odd

feeling

of

being

watched,

I

beheld

something

crouching

amid

a

clump

of

bushes.

I

stood

regarding

this.

I

made

a

step

towards

it,

and

it

rose

up

and

became

a

man

armed

with

a

cutlass.

I

approached

him

slowly.

He

stood

silent

and

motionless,

regarding

me.

As

I

drew

nearer

I

perceived

he

was

dressed

in

clothes

as

dusty

and

filthy

as

my

own;

he

looked,

indeed,

as

though

he

had

been

dragged

through

a

culvert.

Nearer,

I

distinguished

the

green

slime

of

ditches

mixing

with

the

pale

drab

of

dried

clay

and

shiny,

coaly

patches.

His

black

hair

fell

over

his

eyes,

and

his

face

was

dark

and

dirty

and

sunken,

so

that

at

first

I

did

not

recognise

him.

There

was

a

red

cut

across

the

lower

part

of

his

face.

“Stop!”

he

cried,

when

I

was

within

ten

yards

of

him,

and

I

stopped.

His

voice

was

hoarse.

“Where

do

you

come

from?”

he

said.

I

thought,

surveying

him.

“I

come

from

Mortlake,”

I

said.

“I

was

buried

near

the

pit

the

Martians

made

about

their

cylinder.

I

have

worked

my

way

out

and

escaped.”

“There

is

no

food

about

here,”

he

said.

“This

is

my

country.

All

this

hill

down

to

the

river,

and

back

to

Clapham,

and

up

to

the

edge

of

the

common.

There

is

only

food

for

one.

Which

way

are

you

going?”

I

answered

slowly.

“I

don’t

know,”

I

said.

“I

have

been

buried

in

the

ruins

of

a

house

thirteen

or

fourteen

days.

I

don’t

know

what

has

happened.”

He

looked

at

me

doubtfully,

then

started,

and

looked

with

a

changed

expression.

“I’ve

no

wish

to

stop

about

here,”

said

I.

“I

think

I

shall

go

to

Leatherhead,

for

my

wife

was

there.”

He

shot

out

a

pointing

finger.

“It

is

you,”

said

he;

“the

man

from

Woking.

And

you

weren’t

killed

at

Weybridge?”

I

recognised

him

at

the

same

moment.

“You

are

the

artilleryman

who

came

into

my

garden.”

“Good

luck!”

he

said.

“We

are

lucky

ones!

Fancy

you!”

He

put

out

a

hand,

and

I

took

it.

“I

crawled

up

a

drain,”

he

said.

“But

they

didn’t

kill

everyone.

And

after

they

went

away

I

got

off

towards

Walton

across

the

fields.

But——

It’s

not

sixteen

days

altogether—and

your

hair

is

grey.”

He

looked

over

his

shoulder

suddenly.

“Only

a

rook,”

he

said.

“One

gets

to

know

that

birds

have

shadows

these

days.

This

is

a

bit

open.

Let

us

crawl

under

those

bushes

and

talk.”

“Have

you

seen

any

Martians?”

I

said.

“Since

I

crawled

out——”

“They’ve

gone

away

across

London,”

he

said.

“I

guess

they’ve

got

a

bigger

camp

there.

Of

a

night,

all

over

there,

Hampstead

way,

the

sky

is

alive

with

their

lights.

It’s

like

a

great

city,

and

in

the

glare

you

can

just

see

them

moving.

By

daylight

you

can’t.

But

nearer—I

haven’t

seen

them—”

(he

counted

on

his

fingers)

“five

days.

Then

I

saw

a

couple

across

Hammersmith

way

carrying

something

big.

And

the

night

before

last”—he

stopped

and

spoke

impressively—“it

was

just

a

matter

of

lights,

but

it

was

something

up

in

the

air.

I

believe

they’ve

built

a

flying-machine,

and

are

learning

to

fly.”

I

stopped,

on

hands

and

knees,

for

we

had

come

to

the

bushes.

“Fly!”

“Yes,”

he

said,

“fly.”

I

went

on

into

a

little

bower,

and

sat

down.

“It

is

all

over

with

humanity,”

I

said.

“If

they

can

do

that

they

will

simply

go

round

the

world.”

He

nodded.

“They

will.

But——

It

will

relieve

things

over

here

a

bit.

And

besides——”

He

looked

at

me.

“Aren’t

you

satisfied

it

is

up

with

humanity?

I

am.

We’re

down;

we’re

beat.”

I

stared.

Strange

as

it

may

seem,

I

had

not

arrived

at

this

fact—a

fact

perfectly

obvious

so

soon

as

he

spoke.

I

had

still

held

a

vague

hope;

rather,

I

had

kept

a

lifelong

habit

of

mind.

He

repeated

his

words,

“We’re

beat.”

They

carried

absolute

conviction.

“It’s

all

over,”

he

said.

“They’ve

lost

one—just

one.

And

they’ve

made

their

footing

good

and

crippled

the

greatest

power

in

the

world.

They’ve

walked

over

us.

The

death

of

that

one

at

Weybridge

was

an

accident.

And

these

are

only

pioneers.

They

kept

on

coming.

These

green

stars—I’ve

seen

none

these

five

or

six

days,

but

I’ve

no

doubt

they’re

falling

somewhere

every

night.

Nothing’s

to

be

done.

We’re

under!

We’re

beat!”

I

made

him

no

answer.

I

sat

staring

before

me,

trying

in

vain

to

devise

some

countervailing

thought.

“This

isn’t

a

war,”

said

the

artilleryman.

“It

never

was

a

war,

any

more

than

there’s

war

between

man

and

ants.”

Suddenly

I

recalled

the

night

in

the

observatory.

“After

the

tenth

shot

they

fired

no

more—at

least,

until

the

first

cylinder

came.”

“How

do

you

know?”

said

the

artilleryman.

I

explained.

He

thought.

“Something

wrong

with

the

gun,”

he

said.

“But

what

if

there

is?

They’ll

get

it

right

again.

And

even

if

there’s

a

delay,

how

can

it

alter

the

end?

It’s

just

men

and

ants.

There’s

the

ants

builds

their

cities,

live

their

lives,

have

wars,

revolutions,

until

the

men

want

them

out

of

the

way,

and

then

they

go

out

of

the

way.

That’s

what

we

are

now—just

ants.

Only——”

“Yes,”

I

said.

“We’re

eatable

ants.”

We

sat

looking

at

each

other.

“And

what

will

they

do

with

us?”

I

said.

“That’s

what

I’ve

been

thinking,”

he

said;

“that’s

what

I’ve

been

thinking.

After

Weybridge

I

went

south—thinking.

I

saw

what

was

up.

Most

of

the

people

were

hard

at

it

squealing

and

exciting

themselves.

But

I’m

not

so

fond

of

squealing.

I’ve

been

in

sight

of

death

once

or

twice;

I’m

not

an

ornamental

soldier,

and

at

the

best

and

worst,

death—it’s

just

death.

And

it’s

the

man

that

keeps

on

thinking

comes

through.

I

saw

everyone

tracking

away

south.

Says

I,

‘Food

won’t

last

this

way,’

and

I

turned

right

back.

I

went

for

the

Martians

like

a

sparrow

goes

for

man.

All

round”—he

waved

a

hand

to

the

horizon—“they’re

starving

in

heaps,

bolting,

treading

on

each

other.

.

.

.”

He

saw

my

face,

and

halted

awkwardly.

“No

doubt

lots

who

had

money

have

gone

away

to

France,”

he

said.

He

seemed

to

hesitate

whether

to

apologise,

met

my

eyes,

and

went

on:

“There’s

food

all

about

here.

Canned

things

in

shops;

wines,

spirits,

mineral

waters;

and

the

water

mains

and

drains

are

empty.

Well,

I

was

telling

you

what

I

was

thinking.

‘Here’s

intelligent

things,’

I

said,

‘and

it

seems

they

want

us

for

food.

First,

they’ll

smash

us

up—ships,

machines,

guns,

cities,

all

the

order

and

organisation.

All

that

will

go.

If

we

were

the

size

of

ants

we

might

pull

through.

But

we’re

not.

It’s

all

too

bulky

to

stop.

That’s

the

first

certainty.’

Eh?”

I

assented.

“It

is;

I’ve

thought

it

out.

Very

well,

then—next;

at

present

we’re

caught

as

we’re

wanted.

A

Martian

has

only

to

go

a

few

miles

to

get

a

crowd

on

the

run.

And

I

saw

one,

one

day,

out

by

Wandsworth,

picking

houses

to

pieces

and

routing

among

the

wreckage.

But

they

won’t

keep

on

doing

that.

So

soon

as

they’ve

settled

all

our

guns

and

ships,

and

smashed

our

railways,

and

done

all

the

things

they

are

doing

over

there,

they

will

begin

catching

us

systematic,

picking

the

best

and

storing

us

in

cages

and

things.

That’s

what

they

will

start

doing

in

a

bit.

Lord!

They

haven’t

begun

on

us

yet.

Don’t

you

see

that?”

“Not

begun!”

I

exclaimed.

“Not

begun.

All

that’s

happened

so

far

is

through

our

not

having

the

sense

to

keep

quiet—worrying

them

with

guns

and

such

foolery.

And

losing

our

heads,

and

rushing

off

in

crowds

to

where

there

wasn’t

any

more

safety

than

where

we

were.

They

don’t

want

to

bother

us

yet.

They’re

making

their

things—making

all

the

things

they

couldn’t

bring

with

them,

getting

things

ready

for

the

rest

of

their

people.

Very

likely

that’s

why

the

cylinders

have

stopped

for

a

bit,

for

fear

of

hitting

those

who

are

here.

And

instead

of

our

rushing

about

blind,

on

the

howl,

or

getting

dynamite

on

the

chance

of

busting

them

up,

we’ve

got

to

fix

ourselves

up

according

to

the

new

state

of

affairs.

That’s

how

I

figure

it

out.

It

isn’t

quite

according

to

what

a

man

wants

for

his

species,

but

it’s

about

what

the

facts

point

to.

And

that’s

the

principle

I

acted

upon.

Cities,

nations,

civilisation,

progress—it’s

all

over.

That

game’s

up.

We’re

beat.”

“But

if

that

is

so,

what

is

there

to

live

for?”

The

artilleryman

looked

at

me

for

a

moment.

“There

won’t

be

any

more

blessed

concerts

for

a

million

years

or

so;

there

won’t

be

any

Royal

Academy

of

Arts,

and

no

nice

little

feeds

at

restaurants.

If

it’s

amusement

you’re

after,

I

reckon

the

game

is

up.

If

you’ve

got

any

drawing-room

manners

or

a

dislike

to

eating

peas

with

a

knife

or

dropping

aitches,

you’d

better

chuck

’em

away.

They

ain’t

no

further

use.”

“You

mean——”

“I

mean

that

men

like

me

are

going

on

living—for

the

sake

of

the

breed.

I

tell

you,

I’m

grim

set

on

living.

And

if

I’m

not

mistaken,

you’ll

show

what

insides

you’ve

got,

too,

before

long.

We

aren’t

going

to

be

exterminated.

And

I

don’t

mean

to

be

caught

either,

and

tamed

and

fattened

and

bred

like

a

thundering

ox.

Ugh!

Fancy

those

brown

creepers!”

“You

don’t

mean

to

say——”

“I

do.

I’m

going

on,

under

their

feet.

I’ve

got

it

planned;

I’ve

thought

it

out.

We

men

are

beat.

We

don’t

know

enough.

We’ve

got

to

learn

before

we’ve

got

a

chance.

And

we’ve

got

to

live

and

keep

independent

while

we

learn.

See!

That’s

what

has

to

be

done.”

I

stared,

astonished,

and

stirred

profoundly

by

the

man’s

resolution.

“Great

God!”

cried

I.

“But

you

are

a

man

indeed!”

And

suddenly

I

gripped

his

hand.

“Eh!”

he

said,

with

his

eyes

shining.

“I’ve

thought

it

out,

eh?”

“Go

on,”

I

said.

“Well,

those

who

mean

to

escape

their

catching

must

get

ready.

I’m

getting

ready.

Mind

you,

it

isn’t

all

of

us

that

are

made

for

wild

beasts;

and

that’s

what

it’s

got

to

be.

That’s

why

I

watched

you.

I

had

my

doubts.

You’re

slender.

I

didn’t

know

that

it

was

you,

you

see,

or

just

how

you’d

been

buried.

All

these—the

sort

of

people

that

lived

in

these

houses,

and

all

those

damn

little

clerks

that

used

to

live

down

that

way—they’d

be

no

good.

They

haven’t

any

spirit

in

them—no

proud

dreams

and

no

proud

lusts;

and

a

man

who

hasn’t

one

or

the

other—Lord!

What

is

he

but

funk

and

precautions?

They

just

used

to

skedaddle

off

to

work—I’ve

seen

hundreds

of

’em,

bit

of

breakfast

in

hand,

running

wild

and

shining

to

catch

their

little

season-ticket

train,

for

fear

they’d

get

dismissed

if

they

didn’t;

working

at

businesses

they

were

afraid

to

take

the

trouble

to

understand;

skedaddling

back

for

fear

they

wouldn’t

be

in

time

for

dinner;

keeping

indoors

after

dinner

for

fear

of

the

back

streets,

and

sleeping

with

the

wives

they

married,

not

because

they

wanted

them,

but

because

they

had

a

bit

of

money

that

would

make

for

safety

in

their

one

little

miserable

skedaddle

through

the

world.

Lives

insured

and

a

bit

invested

for

fear

of

accidents.

And

on

Sundays—fear

of

the

hereafter.

As

if

hell

was

built

for

rabbits!

Well,

the

Martians

will

just

be

a

godsend

to

these.

Nice

roomy

cages,

fattening

food,

careful

breeding,

no

worry.

After

a

week

or

so

chasing

about

the

fields

and

lands

on

empty

stomachs,

they’ll

come

and

be

caught

cheerful.

They’ll

be

quite

glad

after

a

bit.

They’ll

wonder

what

people

did

before

there

were

Martians

to

take

care

of

them.

And

the

bar

loafers,

and

mashers,

and

singers—I

can

imagine

them.

I

can

imagine

them,”

he

said,

with

a

sort

of

sombre

gratification.

“There’ll

be

any

amount

of

sentiment

and

religion

loose

among

them.

There’s

hundreds

of

things

I

saw

with

my

eyes

that

I’ve

only

begun

to

see

clearly

these

last

few

days.

There’s

lots

will

take

things

as

they

are—fat

and

stupid;

and

lots

will

be

worried

by

a

sort

of

feeling

that

it’s

all

wrong,

and

that

they

ought

to

be

doing

something.

Now

whenever

things

are

so

that

a

lot

of

people

feel

they

ought

to

be

doing

something,

the

weak,

and

those

who

go

weak

with

a

lot

of

complicated

thinking,

always

make

for

a

sort

of

do-nothing

religion,

very

pious

and

superior,

and

submit

to

persecution

and

the

will

of

the

Lord.

Very

likely

you’ve

seen

the

same

thing.

It’s

energy

in

a

gale

of

funk,

and

turned

clean

inside

out.

These

cages

will

be

full

of

psalms

and

hymns

and

piety.

And

those

of

a

less

simple

sort

will

work

in

a

bit

of—what

is

it?—eroticism.”

He

paused.

“Very

likely

these

Martians

will

make

pets

of

some

of

them;

train

them

to

do

tricks—who

knows?—get

sentimental

over

the

pet

boy

who

grew

up

and

had

to

be

killed.

And

some,

maybe,

they

will

train

to

hunt

us.”

“No,”

I

cried,

“that’s

impossible!

No

human

being——”

“What’s

the

good

of

going

on

with

such

lies?”

said

the

artilleryman.

“There’s

men

who’d

do

it

cheerful.

What

nonsense

to

pretend

there

isn’t!”

And

I

succumbed

to

his

conviction.

“If

they

come

after

me,”

he

said;

“Lord,

if

they

come

after

me!”

and

subsided

into

a

grim

meditation.

I

sat

contemplating

these

things.

I

could

find

nothing

to

bring

against

this

man’s

reasoning.

In

the

days

before

the

invasion

no

one

would

have

questioned

my

intellectual

superiority

to

his—I,

a

professed

and

recognised

writer

on

philosophical

themes,

and

he,

a

common

soldier;

and

yet

he

had

already

formulated

a

situation

that

I

had

scarcely

realised.

“What

are

you

doing?”

I

said

presently.

“What

plans

have

you

made?”

He

hesitated.

“Well,

it’s

like

this,”

he

said.

“What

have

we

to

do?

We

have

to

invent

a

sort

of

life

where

men

can

live

and

breed,

and

be

sufficiently

secure

to

bring

the

children

up.

Yes—wait

a

bit,

and

I’ll

make

it

clearer

what

I

think

ought

to

be

done.

The

tame

ones

will

go

like

all

tame

beasts;

in

a

few

generations

they’ll

be

big,

beautiful,

rich-blooded,

stupid—rubbish!

The

risk

is

that

we

who

keep

wild

will

go

savage—degenerate

into

a

sort

of

big,

savage

rat.

.

.

.

You

see,

how

I

mean

to

live

is

underground.

I’ve

been

thinking

about

the

drains.

Of

course

those

who

don’t

know

drains

think

horrible

things;

but

under

this

London

are

miles

and

miles—hundreds

of

miles—and

a

few

days

rain

and

London

empty

will

leave

them

sweet

and

clean.

The

main

drains

are

big

enough

and

airy

enough

for

anyone.

Then

there’s

cellars,

vaults,

stores,

from

which

bolting

passages

may

be

made

to

the

drains.

And

the

railway

tunnels

and

subways.

Eh?

You

begin

to

see?

And

we

form

a

band—able-bodied,

clean-minded

men.

We’re

not

going

to

pick

up

any

rubbish

that

drifts

in.

Weaklings

go

out

again.”

“As

you

meant

me

to

go?”

“Well—I

parleyed,

didn’t

I?”

“We

won’t

quarrel

about

that.

Go

on.”

“Those

who

stop

obey

orders.

Able-bodied,

clean-minded

women

we

want

also—mothers

and

teachers.

No

lackadaisical

ladies—no

blasted

rolling

eyes.

We

can’t

have

any

weak

or

silly.

Life

is

real

again,

and

the

useless

and

cumbersome

and

mischievous

have

to

die.

They

ought

to

die.

They

ought

to

be

willing

to

die.

It’s

a

sort

of

disloyalty,

after

all,

to

live

and

taint

the

race.

And

they

can’t

be

happy.

Moreover,

dying’s

none

so

dreadful;

it’s

the

funking

makes

it

bad.

And

in

all

those

places

we

shall

gather.

Our

district

will

be

London.

And

we

may

even

be

able

to

keep

a

watch,

and

run

about

in

the

open

when

the

Martians

keep

away.

Play

cricket,

perhaps.

That’s

how

we

shall

save

the

race.

Eh?

It’s

a

possible

thing?

But

saving

the

race

is

nothing

in

itself.

As

I

say,

that’s

only

being

rats.

It’s

saving

our

knowledge

and

adding

to

it

is

the

thing.

There

men

like

you

come

in.

There’s

books,

there’s

models.

We

must

make

great

safe

places

down

deep,

and

get

all

the

books

we

can;

not

novels

and

poetry

swipes,

but

ideas,

science

books.

That’s

where

men

like

you

come

in.

We

must

go

to

the

British

Museum

and

pick

all

those

books

through.

Especially

we

must

keep

up

our

science—learn

more.

We

must

watch

these

Martians.

Some

of

us

must

go

as

spies.

When

it’s

all

working,

perhaps

I

will.

Get

caught,

I

mean.

And

the

great

thing

is,

we

must

leave

the

Martians

alone.

We

mustn’t

even

steal.

If

we

get

in

their

way,

we

clear

out.

We

must

show

them

we

mean

no

harm.

Yes,

I

know.

But

they’re

intelligent

things,

and

they

won’t

hunt

us

down

if

they

have

all

they

want,

and

think

we’re

just

harmless

vermin.”

The

artilleryman

paused

and

laid

a

brown

hand

upon

my

arm.

“After

all,

it

may

not

be

so

much

we

may

have

to

learn

before—Just

imagine

this:

four

or

five

of

their

fighting

machines

suddenly

starting

off—Heat-Rays

right

and

left,

and

not

a

Martian

in

’em.

Not

a

Martian

in

’em,

but

men—men

who

have

learned

the

way

how.

It

may

be

in

my

time,

even—those

men.

Fancy

having

one

of

them

lovely

things,

with

its

Heat-Ray

wide

and

free!

Fancy

having

it

in

control!

What

would

it

matter

if

you

smashed

to

smithereens

at

the

end

of

the

run,

after

a

bust

like

that?

I

reckon

the

Martians’ll

open

their

beautiful

eyes!

Can’t

you

see

them,

man?

Can’t

you

see

them

hurrying,

hurrying—puffing

and

blowing

and

hooting

to

their

other

mechanical

affairs?

Something

out

of

gear

in

every

case.

And

swish,

bang,

rattle,

swish!

Just

as

they

are

fumbling

over

it,

swish

comes

the

Heat-Ray,

and,

behold!

man

has

come

back

to

his

own.”

For

a

while

the

imaginative

daring

of

the

artilleryman,

and

the

tone

of

assurance

and

courage

he

assumed,

completely

dominated

my

mind.

I

believed

unhesitatingly

both

in

his

forecast

of

human

destiny

and

in

the

practicability

of

his

astonishing

scheme,

and

the

reader

who

thinks

me

susceptible

and

foolish

must

contrast

his

position,

reading

steadily

with

all

his

thoughts

about

his

subject,

and

mine,

crouching

fearfully

in

the

bushes

and

listening,

distracted

by

apprehension.

We

talked

in

this

manner

through

the

early

morning

time,

and

later

crept

out

of

the

bushes,

and,

after

scanning

the

sky

for

Martians,

hurried

precipitately

to

the

house

on

Putney

Hill

where

he

had

made

his

lair.

It

was

the

coal

cellar

of

the

place,

and

when

I

saw

the

work

he

had

spent

a

week

upon—it

was

a

burrow

scarcely

ten

yards

long,

which

he

designed

to

reach

to

the

main

drain

on

Putney

Hill—I

had

my

first

inkling

of

the

gulf

between

his

dreams

and

his

powers.

Such

a

hole

I

could

have

dug

in

a

day.

But

I

believed

in

him

sufficiently

to

work

with

him

all

that

morning

until

past

midday

at

his

digging.

We

had

a

garden

barrow

and

shot

the

earth

we

removed

against

the

kitchen

range.

We

refreshed

ourselves

with

a

tin

of

mock-turtle

soup

and

wine

from

the

neighbouring

pantry.

I

found

a

curious

relief

from

the

aching

strangeness

of

the

world

in

this

steady

labour.

As

we

worked,

I

turned

his

project

over

in

my

mind,

and

presently

objections

and

doubts

began

to

arise;

but

I

worked

there

all

the

morning,

so

glad

was

I

to

find

myself

with

a

purpose

again.

After

working

an

hour

I

began

to

speculate

on

the

distance

one

had

to

go

before

the

cloaca

was

reached,

the

chances

we

had

of

missing

it

altogether.

My

immediate

trouble

was

why

we

should

dig

this

long

tunnel,

when

it

was

possible

to

get

into

the

drain

at

once

down

one

of

the

manholes,

and

work

back

to

the

house.

It

seemed

to

me,

too,

that

the

house

was

inconveniently

chosen,

and

required

a

needless

length

of

tunnel.

And

just

as

I

was

beginning

to

face

these

things,

the

artilleryman

stopped

digging,

and

looked

at

me.

“We’re

working

well,”

he

said.

He

put

down

his

spade.

“Let

us

knock

off

a

bit”

he

said.

“I

think

it’s

time

we

reconnoitred

from

the

roof

of

the

house.”

I

was

for

going

on,

and

after

a

little

hesitation

he

resumed

his

spade;

and

then

suddenly

I

was

struck

by

a

thought.

I

stopped,

and

so

did

he

at

once.

“Why

were

you

walking

about

the

common,”

I

said,

“instead

of

being

here?”

“Taking

the

air,”

he

said.

“I

was

coming

back.

It’s

safer

by

night.”

“But

the

work?”

“Oh,

one

can’t

always

work,”

he

said,

and

in

a

flash

I

saw

the

man

plain.

He

hesitated,

holding

his

spade.

“We

ought

to

reconnoitre

now,”

he

said,

“because

if

any

come

near

they

may

hear

the

spades

and

drop

upon

us

unawares.”

I

was

no

longer

disposed

to

object.

We

went

together

to

the

roof

and

stood

on

a

ladder

peeping

out

of

the

roof

door.

No

Martians

were

to

be

seen,

and

we

ventured

out

on

the

tiles,

and

slipped

down

under

shelter

of

the

parapet.

From

this

position

a

shrubbery

hid

the

greater

portion

of

Putney,

but

we

could

see

the

river

below,

a

bubbly

mass

of

red

weed,

and

the

low

parts

of

Lambeth

flooded

and

red.

The

red

creeper

swarmed

up

the

trees

about

the

old

palace,

and

their

branches

stretched

gaunt

and

dead,

and

set

with

shrivelled

leaves,

from

amid

its

clusters.

It

was

strange

how

entirely

dependent

both

these

things

were

upon

flowing

water

for

their

propagation.

About

us

neither

had

gained

a

footing;

laburnums,

pink

mays,

snowballs,

and

trees

of

arbor-vitae,

rose

out

of

laurels

and

hydrangeas,

green

and

brilliant

into

the

sunlight.

Beyond

Kensington

dense

smoke

was

rising,

and

that

and

a

blue

haze

hid

the

northward

hills.

The

artilleryman

began

to

tell

me

of

the

sort

of

people

who

still

remained

in

London.

“One

night

last

week,”

he

said,

“some

fools

got

the

electric

light

in

order,

and

there

was

all

Regent

Street

and

the

Circus

ablaze,

crowded

with

painted

and

ragged

drunkards,

men

and

women,

dancing

and

shouting

till

dawn.

A

man

who

was

there

told

me.

And

as

the

day

came

they

became

aware

of

a

fighting-machine

standing

near

by

the

Langham

and

looking

down

at

them.

Heaven

knows

how

long

he

had

been

there.

It

must

have

given

some

of

them

a

nasty

turn.

He

came

down

the

road

towards

them,

and

picked

up

nearly

a

hundred

too

drunk

or

frightened

to

run

away.”

Grotesque

gleam

of

a

time

no

history

will

ever

fully

describe!

From

that,

in

answer

to

my

questions,

he

came

round

to

his

grandiose

plans

again.

He

grew

enthusiastic.

He

talked

so

eloquently

of

the

possibility

of

capturing

a

fighting-machine

that

I

more

than

half

believed

in

him

again.

But

now

that

I

was

beginning

to

understand

something

of

his

quality,

I

could

divine

the

stress

he

laid

on

doing

nothing

precipitately.

And

I

noted

that

now

there

was

no

question

that

he

personally

was

to

capture

and

fight

the

great

machine.

After

a

time

we

went

down

to

the

cellar.

Neither

of

us

seemed

disposed

to

resume

digging,

and

when

he

suggested

a

meal,

I

was

nothing

loath.

He

became

suddenly

very

generous,

and

when

we

had

eaten

he

went

away

and

returned

with

some

excellent

cigars.

We

lit

these,

and

his

optimism

glowed.

He

was

inclined

to

regard

my

coming

as

a

great

occasion.

“There’s

some

champagne

in

the

cellar,”

he

said.

“We

can

dig

better

on

this

Thames-side

burgundy,”

said

I.

“No,”

said

he;

“I

am

host

today.

Champagne!

Great

God!

We’ve

a

heavy

enough

task

before

us!

Let

us

take

a

rest

and

gather

strength

while

we

may.

Look

at

these

blistered

hands!”

And

pursuant

to

this

idea

of

a

holiday,

he

insisted

upon

playing

cards

after

we

had

eaten.

He

taught

me

euchre,

and

after

dividing

London

between

us,

I

taking

the

northern

side

and

he

the

southern,

we

played

for

parish

points.

Grotesque

and

foolish

as

this

will

seem

to

the

sober

reader,

it

is

absolutely

true,

and

what

is

more

remarkable,

I

found

the

card

game

and

several

others

we

played

extremely

interesting.

Strange

mind

of

man!

that,

with

our

species

upon

the

edge

of

extermination

or

appalling

degradation,

with

no

clear

prospect

before

us

but

the

chance

of

a

horrible

death,

we

could

sit

following

the

chance

of

this

painted

pasteboard,

and

playing

the

“joker”

with

vivid

delight.

Afterwards

he

taught

me

poker,

and

I

beat

him

at

three

tough

chess

games.

When

dark

came

we

decided

to

take

the

risk,

and

lit

a

lamp.

After

an

interminable

string

of

games,

we

supped,

and

the

artilleryman

finished

the

champagne.

We

went

on

smoking

the

cigars.

He

was

no

longer

the

energetic

regenerator

of

his

species

I

had

encountered

in

the

morning.

He

was

still

optimistic,

but

it

was

a

less

kinetic,

a

more

thoughtful

optimism.

I

remember

he

wound

up

with

my

health,

proposed

in

a

speech

of

small

variety

and

considerable

intermittence.

I

took

a

cigar,

and

went

upstairs

to

look

at

the

lights

of

which

he

had

spoken

that

blazed

so

greenly

along

the

Highgate

hills.

At

first

I

stared

unintelligently

across

the

London

valley.

The

northern

hills

were

shrouded

in

darkness;

the

fires

near

Kensington

glowed

redly,

and

now

and

then

an

orange-red

tongue

of

flame

flashed

up

and

vanished

in

the

deep

blue

night.

All

the

rest

of

London

was

black.

Then,

nearer,

I

perceived

a

strange

light,

a

pale,

violet-purple

fluorescent

glow,

quivering

under

the

night

breeze.

For

a

space

I

could

not

understand

it,

and

then

I

knew

that

it

must

be

the

red

weed

from

which

this

faint

irradiation

proceeded.

With

that

realisation

my

dormant

sense

of

wonder,

my

sense

of

the

proportion

of

things,

awoke

again.

I

glanced

from

that

to

Mars,

red

and

clear,

glowing

high

in

the

west,

and

then

gazed

long

and

earnestly

at

the

darkness

of

Hampstead

and

Highgate.

I

remained

a

very

long

time

upon

the

roof,

wondering

at

the

grotesque

changes

of

the

day.

I

recalled

my

mental

states

from

the

midnight

prayer

to

the

foolish

card-playing.

I

had

a

violent

revulsion

of

feeling.

I

remember

I

flung

away

the

cigar

with

a

certain

wasteful

symbolism.

My

folly

came

to

me

with

glaring

exaggeration.

I

seemed

a

traitor

to

my

wife

and

to

my

kind;

I

was

filled

with

remorse.

I

resolved

to

leave

this

strange

undisciplined

dreamer

of

great

things

to

his

drink

and

gluttony,

and

to

go

on

into

London.

There,

it

seemed

to

me,

I

had

the

best

chance

of

learning

what

the

Martians

and

my

fellowmen

were

doing.

I

was

still

upon

the

roof

when

the

late

moon

rose.

VIII.

DEAD

LONDON.

After

I

had

parted

from

the

artilleryman,

I

went

down

the

hill,

and

by

the

High

Street

across

the

bridge

to

Fulham.

The

red

weed

was

tumultuous

at

that

time,

and

nearly

choked

the

bridge

roadway;

but

its

fronds

were

already

whitened

in

patches

by

the

spreading

disease

that

presently

removed

it

so

swiftly.

At

the

corner

of

the

lane

that

runs

to

Putney

Bridge

station

I

found

a

man

lying.

He

was

as

black

as

a

sweep

with

the

black

dust,

alive,

but

helplessly

and

speechlessly

drunk.

I

could

get

nothing

from

him

but

curses

and

furious

lunges

at

my

head.

I

think

I

should

have

stayed

by

him

but

for

the

brutal

expression

of

his

face.

There

was

black

dust

along

the

roadway

from

the

bridge

onwards,

and

it

grew

thicker

in

Fulham.

The

streets

were

horribly

quiet.

I

got

food—sour,

hard,

and

mouldy,

but

quite

eatable—in

a

baker’s

shop

here.

Some

way

towards

Walham

Green

the

streets

became

clear

of

powder,

and

I

passed

a

white

terrace

of

houses

on

fire;

the

noise

of

the

burning

was

an

absolute

relief.

Going

on

towards

Brompton,

the

streets

were

quiet

again.

Here

I

came

once

more

upon

the

black

powder

in

the

streets

and

upon

dead

bodies.

I

saw

altogether

about

a

dozen

in

the

length

of

the

Fulham

Road.

They

had

been

dead

many

days,

so

that

I

hurried

quickly

past

them.

The

black

powder

covered

them

over,

and

softened

their

outlines.

One

or

two

had

been

disturbed

by

dogs.

Where

there

was

no

black

powder,

it

was

curiously

like

a

Sunday

in

the

City,

with

the

closed

shops,

the

houses

locked

up

and

the

blinds

drawn,

the

desertion,

and

the

stillness.

In

some

places

plunderers

had

been

at

work,

but

rarely

at

other

than

the

provision

and

wine

shops.

A

jeweller’s

window

had

been

broken

open

in

one

place,

but

apparently

the

thief

had

been

disturbed,

and

a

number

of

gold

chains

and

a

watch

lay

scattered

on

the

pavement.

I

did

not

trouble

to

touch

them.

Farther

on

was

a

tattered

woman

in

a

heap

on

a

doorstep;

the

hand

that

hung

over

her

knee

was

gashed

and

bled

down

her

rusty

brown

dress,

and

a

smashed

magnum

of

champagne

formed

a

pool

across

the

pavement.

She

seemed

asleep,

but

she

was

dead.

The

farther

I

penetrated

into

London,

the

profounder

grew

the

stillness.

But

it

was

not

so

much

the

stillness

of

death—it

was

the

stillness

of

suspense,

of

expectation.

At

any

time

the

destruction

that

had

already

singed

the

northwestern

borders

of

the

metropolis,

and

had

annihilated

Ealing

and

Kilburn,

might

strike

among

these

houses

and

leave

them

smoking

ruins.

It

was

a

city

condemned

and

derelict.

.

.

.

In

South

Kensington

the

streets

were

clear

of

dead

and

of

black

powder.

It

was

near

South

Kensington

that

I

first

heard

the

howling.

It

crept

almost

imperceptibly

upon

my

senses.

It

was

a

sobbing

alternation

of

two

notes,

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla,”

keeping

on

perpetually.

When

I

passed

streets

that

ran

northward

it

grew

in

volume,

and

houses

and

buildings

seemed

to

deaden

and

cut

it

off

again.

It

came

in

a

full

tide

down

Exhibition

Road.

I

stopped,

staring

towards

Kensington

Gardens,

wondering

at

this

strange,

remote

wailing.

It

was

as

if

that

mighty

desert

of

houses

had

found

a

voice

for

its

fear

and

solitude.

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla,”

wailed

that

superhuman

note—great

waves

of

sound

sweeping

down

the

broad,

sunlit

roadway,

between

the

tall

buildings

on

each

side.

I

turned

northwards,

marvelling,

towards

the

iron

gates

of

Hyde

Park.

I

had

half

a

mind

to

break

into

the

Natural

History

Museum

and

find

my

way

up

to

the

summits

of

the

towers,

in

order

to

see

across

the

park.

But

I

decided

to

keep

to

the

ground,

where

quick

hiding

was

possible,

and

so

went

on

up

the

Exhibition

Road.

All

the

large

mansions

on

each

side

of

the

road

were

empty

and

still,

and

my

footsteps

echoed

against

the

sides

of

the

houses.

At

the

top,

near

the

park

gate,

I

came

upon

a

strange

sight—a

bus

overturned,

and

the

skeleton

of

a

horse

picked

clean.

I

puzzled

over

this

for

a

time,

and

then

went

on

to

the

bridge

over

the

Serpentine.

The

voice

grew

stronger

and

stronger,

though

I

could

see

nothing

above

the

housetops

on

the

north

side

of

the

park,

save

a

haze

of

smoke

to

the

northwest.

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla,”

cried

the

voice,

coming,

as

it

seemed

to

me,

from

the

district

about

Regent’s

Park.

The

desolating

cry

worked

upon

my

mind.

The

mood

that

had

sustained

me

passed.

The

wailing

took

possession

of

me.

I

found

I

was

intensely

weary,

footsore,

and

now

again

hungry

and

thirsty.

It

was

already

past

noon.

Why

was

I

wandering

alone

in

this

city

of

the

dead?

Why

was

I

alone

when

all

London

was

lying

in

state,

and

in

its

black

shroud?

I

felt

intolerably

lonely.

My

mind

ran

on

old

friends

that

I

had

forgotten

for

years.

I

thought

of

the

poisons

in

the

chemists’

shops,

of

the

liquors

the

wine

merchants

stored;

I

recalled

the

two

sodden

creatures

of

despair,

who

so

far

as

I

knew,

shared

the

city

with

myself.

.

.

.

I

came

into

Oxford

Street

by

the

Marble

Arch,

and

here

again

were

black

powder

and

several

bodies,

and

an

evil,

ominous

smell

from

the

gratings

of

the

cellars

of

some

of

the

houses.

I

grew

very

thirsty

after

the

heat

of

my

long

walk.

With

infinite

trouble

I

managed

to

break

into

a

public-house

and

get

food

and

drink.

I

was

weary

after

eating,

and

went

into

the

parlour

behind

the

bar,

and

slept

on

a

black

horsehair

sofa

I

found

there.

I

awoke

to

find

that

dismal

howling

still

in

my

ears,

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla.”

It

was

now

dusk,

and

after

I

had

routed

out

some

biscuits

and

a

cheese

in

the

bar—there

was

a

meat

safe,

but

it

contained

nothing

but

maggots—I

wandered

on

through

the

silent

residential

squares

to

Baker

Street—Portman

Square

is

the

only

one

I

can

name—and

so

came

out

at

last

upon

Regent’s

Park.

And

as

I

emerged

from

the

top

of

Baker

Street,

I

saw

far

away

over

the

trees

in

the

clearness

of

the

sunset

the

hood

of

the

Martian

giant

from

which

this

howling

proceeded.

I

was

not

terrified.

I

came

upon

him

as

if

it

were

a

matter

of

course.

I

watched

him

for

some

time,

but

he

did

not

move.

He

appeared

to

be

standing

and

yelling,

for

no

reason

that

I

could

discover.

I

tried

to

formulate

a

plan

of

action.

That

perpetual

sound

of

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla,”

confused

my

mind.

Perhaps

I

was

too

tired

to

be

very

fearful.

Certainly

I

was

more

curious

to

know

the

reason

of

this

monotonous

crying

than

afraid.

I

turned

back

away

from

the

park

and

struck

into

Park

Road,

intending

to

skirt

the

park,

went

along

under

the

shelter

of

the

terraces,

and

got

a

view

of

this

stationary,

howling

Martian

from

the

direction

of

St.

John’s

Wood.

A

couple

of

hundred

yards

out

of

Baker

Street

I

heard

a

yelping

chorus,

and

saw,

first

a

dog

with

a

piece

of

putrescent

red

meat

in

his

jaws

coming

headlong

towards

me,

and

then

a

pack

of

starving

mongrels

in

pursuit

of

him.

He

made

a

wide

curve

to

avoid

me,

as

though

he

feared

I

might

prove

a

fresh

competitor.

As

the

yelping

died

away

down

the

silent

road,

the

wailing

sound

of

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla,”

reasserted

itself.

I

came

upon

the

wrecked

handling-machine

halfway

to

St.

John’s

Wood

station.

At

first

I

thought

a

house

had

fallen

across

the

road.

It

was

only

as

I

clambered

among

the

ruins

that

I

saw,

with

a

start,

this

mechanical

Samson

lying,

with

its

tentacles

bent

and

smashed

and

twisted,

among

the

ruins

it

had

made.

The

forepart

was

shattered.

It

seemed

as

if

it

had

driven

blindly

straight

at

the

house,

and

had

been

overwhelmed

in

its

overthrow.

It

seemed

to

me

then

that

this

might

have

happened

by

a

handling-machine

escaping

from

the

guidance

of

its

Martian.

I

could

not

clamber

among

the

ruins

to

see

it,

and

the

twilight

was

now

so

far

advanced

that

the

blood

with

which

its

seat

was

smeared,

and

the

gnawed

gristle

of

the

Martian

that

the

dogs

had

left,

were

invisible

to

me.

Wondering

still

more

at

all

that

I

had

seen,

I

pushed

on

towards

Primrose

Hill.

Far

away,

through

a

gap

in

the

trees,

I

saw

a

second

Martian,

as

motionless

as

the

first,

standing

in

the

park

towards

the

Zoological

Gardens,

and

silent.

A

little

beyond

the

ruins

about

the

smashed

handling-machine

I

came

upon

the

red

weed

again,

and

found

the

Regent’s

Canal,

a

spongy

mass

of

dark-red

vegetation.

As

I

crossed

the

bridge,

the

sound

of

“Ulla,

ulla,

ulla,

ulla,”

ceased.

It

was,

as

it

were,

cut

off.

The

silence

came

like

a

thunderclap.

The

dusky

houses

about

me

stood

faint

and

tall

and

dim;

the

trees

towards

the

park

were

growing

black.

All

about

me

the

red

weed

clambered

among

the

ruins,

writhing

to

get

above

me

in

the

dimness.

Night,

the

mother

of

fear

and

mystery,

was

coming

upon

me.

But

while

that

voice

sounded

the

solitude,

the

desolation,

had

been

endurable;

by

virtue

of

it

London

had

still

seemed

alive,

and

the

sense

of

life

about

me

had

upheld

me.

Then

suddenly

a

change,

the

passing

of

something—I

knew

not

what—and

then

a

stillness

that

could

be

felt.

Nothing

but

this

gaunt

quiet.

London

about

me

gazed

at

me

spectrally.

The

windows

in

the

white

houses

were

like

the

eye

sockets

of

skulls.

About

me

my

imagination

found

a

thousand

noiseless

enemies

moving.

Terror

seized

me,

a

horror

of

my

temerity.

In

front

of

me

the

road

became

pitchy

black

as

though

it

was

tarred,

and

I

saw

a

contorted

shape

lying

across

the

pathway.

I

could

not

bring

myself

to

go

on.

I

turned

down

St.

John’s

Wood

Road,

and

ran

headlong

from

this

unendurable

stillness

towards

Kilburn.

I

hid

from

the

night

and

the

silence,

until

long

after

midnight,

in

a

cabmen’s

shelter

in

Harrow

Road.

But

before

the

dawn

my

courage

returned,

and

while

the

stars

were

still

in

the

sky

I

turned

once

more

towards

Regent’s

Park.

I

missed

my

way

among

the

streets,

and

presently

saw

down

a

long

avenue,

in

the

half-light

of

the

early

dawn,

the

curve

of

Primrose

Hill.

On

the

summit,

towering

up

to

the

fading

stars,

was

a

third

Martian,

erect

and

motionless

like

the

others.

An

insane

resolve

possessed

me.

I

would

die

and

end

it.

And

I

would

save

myself

even

the

trouble

of

killing

myself.

I

marched

on

recklessly

towards

this

Titan,

and

then,

as

I

drew

nearer

and

the

light

grew,

I

saw

that

a

multitude

of

black

birds

was

circling

and

clustering

about

the

hood.

At

that

my

heart

gave

a

bound,

and

I

began

running

along

the

road.

I

hurried

through

the

red

weed

that

choked

St.

Edmund’s

Terrace

(I

waded

breast-high

across

a

torrent

of

water

that

was

rushing

down

from

the

waterworks

towards

the

Albert

Road),

and

emerged

upon

the

grass

before

the

rising

of

the

sun.

Great

mounds

had

been

heaped

about

the

crest

of

the

hill,

making

a

huge

redoubt

of

it—it

was

the

final

and

largest

place

the

Martians

had

made—and

from

behind

these

heaps

there

rose

a

thin

smoke

against

the

sky.

Against

the

sky

line

an

eager

dog

ran

and

disappeared.

The

thought

that

had

flashed

into

my

mind

grew

real,

grew

credible.

I

felt

no

fear,

only

a

wild,

trembling

exultation,

as

I

ran

up

the

hill

towards

the

motionless

monster.

Out

of

the

hood

hung

lank

shreds

of

brown,

at

which

the

hungry

birds

pecked

and

tore.

In

another

moment

I

had

scrambled

up

the

earthen

rampart

and

stood

upon

its

crest,

and

the

interior

of

the

redoubt

was

below

me.

A

mighty

space

it

was,

with

gigantic

machines

here

and

there

within

it,

huge

mounds

of

material

and

strange

shelter

places.

And

scattered

about

it,

some

in

their

overturned

war-machines,

some

in

the

now

rigid

handling-machines,

and

a

dozen

of

them

stark

and

silent

and

laid

in

a

row,

were

the

Martians—dead!—slain

by

the

putrefactive

and

disease

bacteria

against

which

their

systems

were

unprepared;

slain

as

the

red

weed

was

being

slain;

slain,

after

all

man’s

devices

had

failed,

by

the

humblest

things

that

God,

in

his

wisdom,

has

put

upon

this

earth.

For

so

it

had

come

about,

as

indeed

I

and

many

men

might

have

foreseen

had

not

terror

and

disaster

blinded

our

minds.

These

germs

of

disease

have

taken

toll

of

humanity

since

the

beginning

of

things—taken

toll

of

our

prehuman

ancestors

since

life

began

here.

But

by

virtue

of

this

natural

selection

of

our

kind

we

have

developed

resisting

power;

to

no

germs

do

we

succumb

without

a

struggle,

and

to

many—those

that

cause

putrefaction

in

dead

matter,

for

instance—our

living

frames

are

altogether

immune.

But

there

are

no

bacteria

in

Mars,

and

directly

these

invaders

arrived,

directly

they

drank

and

fed,

our

microscopic

allies

began

to

work

their

overthrow.

Already

when

I

watched

them

they

were

irrevocably

doomed,

dying

and

rotting

even

as

they

went

to

and

fro.

It

was

inevitable.

By

the

toll

of

a

billion

deaths

man

has

bought

his

birthright

of

the

earth,

and

it

is

his

against

all

comers;

it

would

still

be

his

were

the

Martians

ten

times

as

mighty

as

they

are.

For

neither

do

men

live

nor

die

in

vain.

Here

and

there

they

were

scattered,

nearly

fifty

altogether,

in

that

great

gulf

they

had

made,

overtaken

by

a

death

that

must

have

seemed

to

them

as

incomprehensible

as

any

death

could

be.

To

me

also

at

that

time

this

death

was

incomprehensible.

All

I

knew

was

that

these

things

that

had

been

alive

and

so

terrible

to

men

were

dead.

For

a

moment

I

believed

that

the

destruction

of

Sennacherib

had

been

repeated,

that

God

had

repented,

that

the

Angel

of

Death

had

slain

them

in

the

night.

I

stood

staring

into

the

pit,

and

my

heart

lightened

gloriously,

even

as

the

rising

sun

struck

the

world

to

fire

about

me

with

his

rays.

The

pit

was

still

in

darkness;

the

mighty

engines,

so

great

and

wonderful

in

their

power

and

complexity,

so

unearthly

in

their

tortuous

forms,

rose

weird

and

vague

and

strange

out

of

the

shadows

towards

the

light.

A

multitude

of

dogs,

I

could

hear,

fought

over

the

bodies

that

lay

darkly

in

the

depth

of

the

pit,

far

below

me.

Across

the

pit

on

its

farther

lip,

flat

and

vast

and

strange,

lay

the

great

flying-machine

with

which

they

had

been

experimenting

upon

our

denser

atmosphere

when

decay

and

death

arrested

them.

Death

had

come

not

a

day

too

soon.

At

the

sound

of

a

cawing

overhead

I

looked

up

at

the

huge

fighting-machine

that

would

fight

no

more

for

ever,

at

the

tattered

red

shreds

of

flesh

that

dripped

down

upon

the

overturned

seats

on

the

summit

of

Primrose

Hill.

I

turned

and

looked

down

the

slope

of

the

hill

to

where,

enhaloed

now

in

birds,

stood

those

other

two

Martians

that

I

had

seen

overnight,

just

as

death

had

overtaken

them.

The

one

had

died,

even

as

it

had

been

crying

to

its

companions;

perhaps

it

was

the

last

to

die,

and

its

voice

had

gone

on

perpetually

until

the

force

of

its

machinery

was

exhausted.

They

glittered

now,

harmless

tripod

towers

of

shining

metal,

in

the

brightness

of

the

rising

sun.

All

about

the

pit,

and

saved

as

by

a

miracle

from

everlasting

destruction,

stretched

the

great

Mother

of

Cities.

Those

who

have

only

seen

London

veiled

in

her

sombre

robes

of

smoke

can

scarcely

imagine

the

naked

clearness

and

beauty

of

the

silent

wilderness

of

houses.

Eastward,

over

the

blackened

ruins

of

the

Albert

Terrace

and

the

splintered

spire

of

the

church,

the

sun

blazed

dazzling

in

a

clear

sky,

and

here

and

there

some

facet

in

the

great

wilderness

of

roofs

caught

the

light

and

glared

with

a

white

intensity.

Northward

were

Kilburn

and

Hampsted,

blue

and

crowded

with

houses;

westward

the

great

city

was

dimmed;

and

southward,

beyond

the

Martians,

the

green

waves

of

Regent’s

Park,

the

Langham

Hotel,

the

dome

of

the

Albert

Hall,

the

Imperial

Institute,

and

the

giant

mansions

of

the

Brompton

Road

came

out

clear

and

little

in

the

sunrise,

the

jagged

ruins

of

Westminster

rising

hazily

beyond.

Far

away

and

blue

were

the

Surrey

hills,

and

the

towers

of

the

Crystal

Palace

glittered

like

two

silver

rods.

The

dome

of

St.

Paul’s

was

dark

against

the

sunrise,

and

injured,

I

saw

for

the

first

time,

by

a

huge

gaping

cavity

on

its

western

side.

And

as

I

looked

at

this

wide

expanse

of

houses

and

factories

and

churches,

silent

and

abandoned;

as

I

thought

of

the

multitudinous

hopes

and

efforts,

the

innumerable

hosts

of

lives

that

had

gone

to

build

this

human

reef,

and

of

the

swift

and

ruthless

destruction

that

had

hung

over

it

all;

when

I

realised

that

the

shadow

had

been

rolled

back,

and

that

men

might

still

live

in

the

streets,

and

this

dear

vast

dead

city

of

mine

be

once

more

alive

and

powerful,

I

felt

a

wave

of

emotion

that

was

near

akin

to

tears.

The

torment

was

over.

Even

that

day

the

healing

would

begin.

The

survivors

of

the

people

scattered

over

the

country—leaderless,

lawless,

foodless,

like

sheep

without

a

shepherd—the

thousands

who

had

fled

by

sea,

would

begin

to

return;

the

pulse

of

life,

growing

stronger

and

stronger,

would

beat

again

in

the

empty

streets

and

pour

across

the

vacant

squares.

Whatever

destruction

was

done,

the

hand

of

the

destroyer

was

stayed.

All

the

gaunt

wrecks,

the

blackened

skeletons

of

houses

that

stared

so

dismally

at

the

sunlit

grass

of

the

hill,

would

presently

be

echoing

with

the

hammers

of

the

restorers

and

ringing

with

the

tapping

of

their

trowels.

At

the

thought

I

extended

my

hands

towards

the

sky

and

began

thanking

God.

In

a

year,

thought

I—in

a

year.

.

.

.

With

overwhelming

force

came

the

thought

of

myself,

of

my

wife,

and

the

old

life

of

hope

and

tender

helpfulness

that

had

ceased

for

ever.

IX.

WRECKAGE.

And

now

comes

the

strangest

thing

in

my

story.

Yet,

perhaps,

it

is

not

altogether

strange.

I

remember,

clearly

and

coldly

and

vividly,

all

that

I

did

that

day

until

the

time

that

I

stood

weeping

and

praising

God

upon

the

summit

of

Primrose

Hill.

And

then

I

forget.

Of

the

next

three

days

I

know

nothing.

I

have

learned

since

that,

so

far

from

my

being

the

first

discoverer

of

the

Martian

overthrow,

several

such

wanderers

as

myself

had

already

discovered

this

on

the

previous

night.

One

man—the

first—had

gone

to

St.

Martin’s-le-Grand,

and,

while

I

sheltered

in

the

cabmen’s

hut,

had

contrived

to

telegraph

to

Paris.

Thence

the

joyful

news

had

flashed

all

over

the

world;

a

thousand

cities,

chilled

by

ghastly

apprehensions,

suddenly

flashed

into

frantic

illuminations;

they

knew

of

it

in

Dublin,

Edinburgh,

Manchester,

Birmingham,

at

the

time

when

I

stood

upon

the

verge

of

the

pit.

Already

men,

weeping

with

joy,

as

I

have

heard,

shouting

and

staying

their

work

to

shake

hands

and

shout,

were

making

up

trains,

even

as

near

as

Crewe,

to

descend

upon

London.

The

church

bells

that

had

ceased

a

fortnight

since

suddenly

caught

the

news,

until

all

England

was

bell-ringing.

Men

on

cycles,

lean-faced,

unkempt,

scorched

along

every

country

lane

shouting

of

unhoped

deliverance,

shouting

to

gaunt,

staring

figures

of

despair.

And

for

the

food!

Across

the

Channel,

across

the

Irish

Sea,

across

the

Atlantic,

corn,

bread,

and

meat

were

tearing

to

our

relief.

All

the

shipping

in

the

world

seemed

going

Londonward

in

those

days.

But

of

all

this

I

have

no

memory.

I

drifted—a

demented

man.

I

found

myself

in

a

house

of

kindly

people,

who

had

found

me

on

the

third

day

wandering,

weeping,

and

raving

through

the

streets

of

St.

John’s

Wood.

They

have

told

me

since

that

I

was

singing

some

insane

doggerel

about

“The

Last

Man

Left

Alive!

Hurrah!

The

Last

Man

Left

Alive!”

Troubled

as

they

were

with

their

own

affairs,

these

people,

whose

name,

much

as

I

would

like

to

express

my

gratitude

to

them,

I

may

not

even

give

here,

nevertheless

cumbered

themselves

with

me,

sheltered

me,

and

protected

me

from

myself.

Apparently

they

had

learned

something

of

my

story

from

me

during

the

days

of

my

lapse.

Very

gently,

when

my

mind

was

assured

again,

did

they

break

to

me

what

they

had

learned

of

the

fate

of

Leatherhead.

Two

days

after

I

was

imprisoned

it

had

been

destroyed,

with

every

soul

in

it,

by

a

Martian.

He

had

swept

it

out

of

existence,

as

it

seemed,

without

any

provocation,

as

a

boy

might

crush

an

ant

hill,

in

the

mere

wantonness

of

power.

I

was

a

lonely

man,

and

they

were

very

kind

to

me.

I

was

a

lonely

man

and

a

sad

one,

and

they

bore

with

me.

I

remained

with

them

four

days

after

my

recovery.

All

that

time

I

felt

a

vague,

a

growing

craving

to

look

once

more

on

whatever

remained

of

the

little

life

that

seemed

so

happy

and

bright

in

my

past.

It

was

a

mere

hopeless

desire

to

feast

upon

my

misery.

They

dissuaded

me.

They

did

all

they

could

to

divert

me

from

this

morbidity.

But

at

last

I

could

resist

the

impulse

no

longer,

and,

promising

faithfully

to

return

to

them,

and

parting,

as

I

will

confess,

from

these

four-day

friends

with

tears,

I

went

out

again

into

the

streets

that

had

lately

been

so

dark

and

strange

and

empty.

Already

they

were

busy

with

returning

people;

in

places

even

there

were

shops

open,

and

I

saw

a

drinking

fountain

running

water.

I

remember

how

mockingly

bright

the

day

seemed

as

I

went

back

on

my

melancholy

pilgrimage

to

the

little

house

at

Woking,

how

busy

the

streets

and

vivid

the

moving

life

about

me.

So

many

people

were

abroad

everywhere,

busied

in

a

thousand

activities,

that

it

seemed

incredible

that

any

great

proportion

of

the

population

could

have

been

slain.

But

then

I

noticed

how

yellow

were

the

skins

of

the

people

I

met,

how

shaggy

the

hair

of

the

men,

how

large

and

bright

their

eyes,

and

that

every

other

man

still

wore

his

dirty

rags.

Their

faces

seemed

all

with

one

of

two

expressions—a

leaping

exultation

and

energy

or

a

grim

resolution.

Save

for

the

expression

of

the

faces,

London

seemed

a

city

of

tramps.

The

vestries

were

indiscriminately

distributing

bread

sent

us

by

the

French

government.

The

ribs

of

the

few

horses

showed

dismally.

Haggard

special

constables

with

white

badges

stood

at

the

corners

of

every

street.

I

saw

little

of

the

mischief

wrought

by

the

Martians

until

I

reached

Wellington

Street,

and

there

I

saw

the

red

weed

clambering

over

the

buttresses

of

Waterloo

Bridge.

At

the

corner

of

the

bridge,

too,

I

saw

one

of

the

common

contrasts

of

that

grotesque

time—a

sheet

of

paper

flaunting

against

a

thicket

of

the

red

weed,

transfixed

by

a

stick

that

kept

it

in

place.

It

was

the

placard

of

the

first

newspaper

to

resume

publication—the

Daily

Mail.

I

bought

a

copy

for

a

blackened

shilling

I

found

in

my

pocket.

Most

of

it

was

in

blank,

but

the

solitary

compositor

who

did

the

thing

had

amused

himself

by

making

a

grotesque

scheme

of

advertisement

stereo

on

the

back

page.

The

matter

he

printed

was

emotional;

the

news

organisation

had

not

as

yet

found

its

way

back.

I

learned

nothing

fresh

except

that

already

in

one

week

the

examination

of

the

Martian

mechanisms

had

yielded

astonishing

results.

Among

other

things,

the

article

assured

me

what

I

did

not

believe

at

the

time,

that

the

“Secret

of

Flying,”

was

discovered.

At

Waterloo

I

found

the

free

trains

that

were

taking

people

to

their

homes.

The

first

rush

was

already

over.

There

were

few

people

in

the

train,

and

I

was

in

no

mood

for

casual

conversation.

I

got

a

compartment

to

myself,

and

sat

with

folded

arms,

looking

greyly

at

the

sunlit

devastation

that

flowed

past

the

windows.

And

just

outside

the

terminus

the

train

jolted

over

temporary

rails,

and

on

either

side

of

the

railway

the

houses

were

blackened

ruins.

To

Clapham

Junction

the

face

of

London

was

grimy

with

powder

of

the

Black

Smoke,

in

spite

of

two

days

of

thunderstorms

and

rain,

and

at

Clapham

Junction

the

line

had

been

wrecked

again;

there

were

hundreds

of

out-of-work

clerks

and

shopmen

working

side

by

side

with

the

customary

navvies,

and

we

were

jolted

over

a

hasty

relaying.

All

down

the

line

from

there

the

aspect

of

the

country

was

gaunt

and

unfamiliar;

Wimbledon

particularly

had

suffered.

Walton,

by

virtue

of

its

unburned

pine

woods,

seemed

the

least

hurt

of

any

place

along

the

line.

The

Wandle,

the

Mole,

every

little

stream,

was

a

heaped

mass

of

red

weed,

in

appearance

between

butcher’s

meat

and

pickled

cabbage.

The

Surrey

pine

woods

were

too

dry,

however,

for

the

festoons

of

the

red

climber.

Beyond

Wimbledon,

within

sight

of

the

line,

in

certain

nursery

grounds,

were

the

heaped

masses

of

earth

about

the

sixth

cylinder.

A

number

of

people

were

standing

about

it,

and

some

sappers

were

busy

in

the

midst

of

it.

Over

it

flaunted

a

Union

Jack,

flapping

cheerfully

in

the

morning

breeze.

The

nursery

grounds

were

everywhere

crimson

with

the

weed,

a

wide

expanse

of

livid

colour

cut

with

purple

shadows,

and

very

painful

to

the

eye.

One’s

gaze

went

with

infinite

relief

from

the

scorched

greys

and

sullen

reds

of

the

foreground

to

the

blue-green

softness

of

the

eastward

hills.

The

line

on

the

London

side

of

Woking

station

was

still

undergoing

repair,

so

I

descended

at

Byfleet

station

and

took

the

road

to

Maybury,

past

the

place

where

I

and

the

artilleryman

had

talked

to

the

hussars,

and

on

by

the

spot

where

the

Martian

had

appeared

to

me

in

the

thunderstorm.

Here,

moved

by

curiosity,

I

turned

aside

to

find,

among

a

tangle

of

red

fronds,

the

warped

and

broken

dog

cart

with

the

whitened

bones

of

the

horse

scattered

and

gnawed.

For

a

time

I

stood

regarding

these

vestiges.

.

.

.

Then

I

returned

through

the

pine

wood,

neck-high

with

red

weed

here

and

there,

to

find

the

landlord

of

the

Spotted

Dog

had

already

found

burial,

and

so

came

home

past

the

College

Arms.

A

man

standing

at

an

open

cottage

door

greeted

me

by

name

as

I

passed.

I

looked

at

my

house

with

a

quick

flash

of

hope

that

faded

immediately.

The

door

had

been

forced;

it

was

unfast

and

was

opening

slowly

as

I

approached.

It

slammed

again.

The

curtains

of

my

study

fluttered

out

of

the

open

window

from

which

I

and

the

artilleryman

had

watched

the

dawn.

No

one

had

closed

it

since.

The

smashed

bushes

were

just

as

I

had

left

them

nearly

four

weeks

ago.

I

stumbled

into

the

hall,

and

the

house

felt

empty.

The

stair

carpet

was

ruffled

and

discoloured

where

I

had

crouched,

soaked

to

the

skin

from

the

thunderstorm

the

night

of

the

catastrophe.

Our

muddy

footsteps

I

saw

still

went

up

the

stairs.

I

followed

them

to

my

study,

and

found

lying

on

my

writing-table

still,

with

the

selenite

paper

weight

upon

it,

the

sheet

of

work

I

had

left

on

the

afternoon

of

the

opening

of

the

cylinder.

For

a

space

I

stood

reading

over

my

abandoned

arguments.

It

was

a

paper

on

the

probable

development

of

Moral

Ideas

with

the

development

of

the

civilising

process;

and

the

last

sentence

was

the

opening

of

a

prophecy:

“In

about

two

hundred

years,”

I

had

written,

“we

may

expect——”

The

sentence

ended

abruptly.

I

remembered

my

inability

to

fix

my

mind

that

morning,

scarcely

a

month

gone

by,

and

how

I

had

broken

off

to

get

my

Daily

Chronicle

from

the

newsboy.

I

remembered

how

I

went

down

to

the

garden

gate

as

he

came

along,

and

how

I

had

listened

to

his

odd

story

of

“Men

from

Mars.”

I

came

down

and

went

into

the

dining

room.

There

were

the

mutton

and

the

bread,

both

far

gone

now

in

decay,

and

a

beer

bottle

overturned,

just

as

I

and

the

artilleryman

had

left

them.

My

home

was

desolate.

I

perceived

the

folly

of

the

faint

hope

I

had

cherished

so

long.

And

then

a

strange

thing

occurred.

“It

is

no

use,”

said

a

voice.

“The

house

is

deserted.

No

one

has

been

here

these

ten

days.

Do

not

stay

here

to

torment

yourself.

No

one

escaped

but

you.”

I

was

startled.

Had

I

spoken

my

thought

aloud?

I

turned,

and

the

French

window

was

open

behind

me.

I

made

a

step

to

it,

and

stood

looking

out.

And

there,

amazed

and

afraid,

even

as

I

stood

amazed

and

afraid,

were

my

cousin

and

my

wife—my

wife

white

and

tearless.

She

gave

a

faint

cry.

“I

came,”

she

said.

“I

knew—knew——”

She

put

her

hand

to

her

throat—swayed.

I

made

a

step

forward,

and

caught

her

in

my

arms.

X.

THE

EPILOGUE.

I

cannot

but

regret,

now

that

I

am

concluding

my

story,

how

little

I

am

able

to

contribute

to

the

discussion

of

the

many

debatable

questions

which

are

still

unsettled.

In

one

respect

I

shall

certainly

provoke

criticism.

My

particular

province

is

speculative

philosophy.

My

knowledge

of

comparative

physiology

is

confined

to

a

book

or

two,

but

it

seems

to

me

that

Carver’s

suggestions

as

to

the

reason

of

the

rapid

death

of

the

Martians

is

so

probable

as

to

be

regarded

almost

as

a

proven

conclusion.

I

have

assumed

that

in

the

body

of

my

narrative.

At

any

rate,

in

all

the

bodies

of

the

Martians

that

were

examined

after

the

war,

no

bacteria

except

those

already

known

as

terrestrial

species

were

found.

That

they

did

not

bury

any

of

their

dead,

and

the

reckless

slaughter

they

perpetrated,

point

also

to

an

entire

ignorance

of

the

putrefactive

process.

But

probable

as

this

seems,

it

is

by

no

means

a

proven

conclusion.

Neither

is

the

composition

of

the

Black

Smoke

known,

which

the

Martians

used

with

such

deadly

effect,

and

the

generator

of

the

Heat-Rays

remains

a

puzzle.

The

terrible

disasters

at

the

Ealing

and

South

Kensington

laboratories

have

disinclined

analysts

for

further

investigations

upon

the

latter.

Spectrum

analysis

of

the

black

powder

points

unmistakably

to

the

presence

of

an

unknown

element

with

a

brilliant

group

of

three

lines

in

the

green,

and

it

is

possible

that

it

combines

with

argon

to

form

a

compound

which

acts

at

once

with

deadly

effect

upon

some

constituent

in

the

blood.

But

such

unproven

speculations

will

scarcely

be

of

interest

to

the

general

reader,

to

whom

this

story

is

addressed.

None

of

the

brown

scum

that

drifted

down

the

Thames

after

the

destruction

of

Shepperton

was

examined

at

the

time,

and

now

none

is

forthcoming.

The

results

of

an

anatomical

examination

of

the

Martians,

so

far

as

the

prowling

dogs

had

left

such

an

examination

possible,

I

have

already

given.

But

everyone

is

familiar

with

the

magnificent

and

almost

complete

specimen

in

spirits

at

the

Natural

History

Museum,

and

the

countless

drawings

that

have

been

made

from

it;

and

beyond

that

the

interest

of

their

physiology

and

structure

is

purely

scientific.

A

question

of

graver

and

universal

interest

is

the

possibility

of

another

attack

from

the

Martians.

I

do

not

think

that

nearly

enough

attention

is

being

given

to

this

aspect

of

the

matter.

At

present

the

planet

Mars

is

in

conjunction,

but

with

every

return

to

opposition

I,

for

one,

anticipate

a

renewal

of

their

adventure.

In

any

case,

we

should

be

prepared.

It

seems

to

me

that

it

should

be

possible

to

define

the

position

of

the

gun

from

which

the

shots

are

discharged,

to

keep

a

sustained

watch

upon

this

part

of

the

planet,

and

to

anticipate

the

arrival

of

the

next

attack.

In

that

case

the

cylinder

might

be

destroyed

with

dynamite

or

artillery

before

it

was

sufficiently

cool

for

the

Martians

to

emerge,

or

they

might

be

butchered

by

means

of

guns

so

soon

as

the

screw

opened.

It

seems

to

me

that

they

have

lost

a

vast

advantage

in

the

failure

of

their

first

surprise.

Possibly

they

see

it

in

the

same

light.

Lessing

has

advanced

excellent

reasons

for

supposing

that

the

Martians

have

actually

succeeded

in

effecting

a

landing

on

the

planet

Venus.

Seven

months

ago

now,

Venus

and

Mars

were

in

alignment

with

the

sun;

that

is

to

say,

Mars

was

in

opposition

from

the

point

of

view

of

an

observer

on

Venus.

Subsequently

a

peculiar

luminous

and

sinuous

marking

appeared

on

the

unillumined

half

of

the

inner

planet,

and

almost

simultaneously

a

faint

dark

mark

of

a

similar

sinuous

character

was

detected

upon

a

photograph

of

the

Martian

disk.

One

needs

to

see

the

drawings

of

these

appearances

in

order

to

appreciate

fully

their

remarkable

resemblance

in

character.

At

any

rate,

whether

we

expect

another

invasion

or

not,

our

views

of

the

human

future

must

be

greatly

modified

by

these

events.

We

have

learned

now

that

we

cannot

regard

this

planet

as

being

fenced

in

and

a

secure

abiding

place

for

Man;

we

can

never

anticipate

the

unseen

good

or

evil

that

may

come

upon

us

suddenly

out

of

space.

It

may

be

that

in

the

larger

design

of

the

universe

this

invasion

from

Mars

is

not

without

its

ultimate

benefit

for

men;

it

has

robbed

us

of

that

serene

confidence

in

the

future

which

is

the

most

fruitful

source

of

decadence,

the

gifts

to

human

science

it

has

brought

are

enormous,

and

it

has

done

much

to

promote

the

conception

of

the

commonweal

of

mankind.

It

may

be

that

across

the

immensity

of

space

the

Martians

have

watched

the

fate

of

these

pioneers

of

theirs

and

learned

their

lesson,

and

that

on

the

planet

Venus

they

have

found

a

securer

settlement.

Be

that

as

it

may,

for

many

years

yet

there

will

certainly

be

no

relaxation

of

the

eager

scrutiny

of

the

Martian

disk,

and

those

fiery

darts

of

the

sky,

the

shooting

stars,

will

bring

with

them

as

they

fall

an

unavoidable

apprehension

to

all

the

sons

of

men.

The

broadening

of

men’s

views

that

has

resulted

can

scarcely

be

exaggerated.

Before

the

cylinder

fell

there

was

a

general

persuasion

that

through

all

the

deep

of

space

no

life

existed

beyond

the

petty

surface

of

our

minute

sphere.

Now

we

see

further.

If

the

Martians

can

reach

Venus,

there

is

no

reason

to

suppose

that

the

thing

is

impossible

for

men,

and

when

the

slow

cooling

of

the

sun

makes

this

earth

uninhabitable,

as

at

last

it

must

do,

it

may

be

that

the

thread

of

life

that

has

begun

here

will

have

streamed

out

and

caught

our

sister

planet

within

its

toils.

Dim

and

wonderful

is

the

vision

I

have

conjured

up

in

my

mind

of

life

spreading

slowly

from

this

little

seed

bed

of

the

solar

system

throughout

the

inanimate

vastness

of

sidereal

space.

But

that

is

a

remote

dream.

It

may

be,

on

the

other

hand,

that

the

destruction

of

the

Martians

is

only

a

reprieve.

To

them,

and

not

to

us,

perhaps,

is

the

future

ordained.

I

must

confess

the

stress

and

danger

of

the

time

have

left

an

abiding

sense

of

doubt

and

insecurity

in

my

mind.

I

sit

in

my

study

writing

by

lamplight,

and

suddenly

I

see

again

the

healing

valley

below

set

with

writhing

flames,

and

feel

the

house

behind

and

about

me

empty

and

desolate.

I

go

out

into

the

Byfleet

Road,

and

vehicles

pass

me,

a

butcher

boy

in

a

cart,

a

cabful

of

visitors,

a

workman

on

a

bicycle,

children

going

to

school,

and

suddenly

they

become

vague

and

unreal,

and

I

hurry

again

with

the

artilleryman

through

the

hot,

brooding

silence.

Of

a

night

I

see

the

black

powder

darkening

the

silent

streets,

and

the

contorted

bodies

shrouded

in

that

layer;

they

rise

upon

me

tattered

and

dog-bitten.

They

gibber

and

grow

fiercer,

paler,

uglier,

mad

distortions

of

humanity

at

last,

and

I

wake,

cold

and

wretched,

in

the

darkness

of

the

night.

I

go

to

London

and

see

the

busy

multitudes

in

Fleet

Street

and

the

Strand,

and

it

comes

across

my

mind

that

they

are

but

the

ghosts

of

the

past,

haunting

the

streets

that

I

have

seen

silent

and

wretched,

going

to

and

fro,

phantasms

in

a

dead

city,

the

mockery

of

life

in

a

galvanised

body.

And

strange,

too,

it

is

to

stand

on

Primrose

Hill,

as

I

did

but

a

day

before

writing

this

last

chapter,

to

see

the

great

province

of

houses,

dim

and

blue

through

the

haze

of

the

smoke

and

mist,

vanishing

at

last

into

the

vague

lower

sky,

to

see

the

people

walking

to

and

fro

among

the

flower

beds

on

the

hill,

to

see

the

sight-seers

about

the

Martian

machine

that

stands

there

still,

to

hear

the

tumult

of

playing

children,

and

to

recall

the

time

when

I

saw

it

all

bright

and

clear-cut,

hard

and

silent,

under

the

dawn

of

that

last

great

day.

.

.

.

And

strangest

of

all

is

it

to

hold

my

wife’s

hand

again,

and

to

think

that

I

have

counted

her,

and

that

she

has

counted

me,

among

the

dead.